Cass's Collection
by Cassodembreankia
Summary: 89) Talk to Me: I knew I shouldn't have kept sneaking into the dark room to talk to the sad man with the tin foil arm. But I couldn't help it. There was just something about him that drew me in. (One-shots. Ratings between G and PG-13 for le smoochy-smoochy)
1. Karaoke Dance Party (Loki)

**Author's Note: The following "Story" is a compilation of one-shots from my Tumblr that I wanted to share with a wider/other audience. Most are one-shots, some have parts. It will be specified in the A/N which is which. Thank you!**

 **1) Karaoke Dance Party**

* * *

 _There is no point in getting out of my pajamas if everyone is gone_ , I thought to myself with a smile as I rolled out of bed at like ten in the morning. I hadn't slept in that late in ages given Natasha and Steve think early-morning training is a good idea (I can assure you, it's not). The new Avengers facility was supposed to be left all to me for the next couple days because the rest of the team decided to go see Clint's family. All at the same time. And I had just gotten back from a visit with the Bartons so I elected to stay behind and "care for" the facility.

Though, by "care for" I mean play pranks on everyone and have a karaoke dance party for one.

Natasha and Steve were definitely going to kill me when they got back and found out I had done absolutely zero training. Or even a minor workout (in their book dancing to fast music didn't count—which was super annoying).

But I didn't want to get out of my pajamas.

My favorite place to dance was in the common area that was in the middle of everyone's bedrooms. It had mahogany floor with cream-colored soft rugs and beige walls. Nothing hugely interesting about the place, but it was mostly open because the sofas were far apart and there was a massive TV on the wall I could use for karaoke.

As I started my iPod playlist of favorite Disney songs (put on shuffle for maximum fun and confusion on my part since I generally had them sorted by movie), I found myself doing choreography and karaoke at the same time. I was singing _Son of Man_ from "Tarzan" at the top of my lungs while beating on imaginary drums and jumping onto the coffee table and leaping off. Lucky me I wasn't tall enough to hit my head on the light fixture when I did that.

The next song to come on was _I'll Make a Man Out of You_ from "Mulan". I started making breakfast during that one, singing along with my cereal spoon as a microphone.

I finished my cereal during _Trashing the Camp_ from "Tarzan" because there weren't exactly words to sing to, just noises the characters were making. I still had about a minute of music left so I cleaned up as fast as I could and leapt over the back of a sofa to make it to the open space.

Once that song was over, a much gentler melody suffused the room.

It was _Once Upon a December_ from "Anastasia". (Yes, I know it's not actually Disney but it's on the playlist anyway.)

A smile drifted up over my face as I closed my eyes and started to slow-dance with an imaginary partner.

I'd always had a problem with sensory illusions (meaning I got them _all the time_ as a side effect of my powers) and an overactive imagination, so when the smell of mint came from nowhere and I felt a hand take my waist and spin me around, I didn't think anything of it. Nor did I realize I wasn't alone when a cool cheek pressed against mine and another cool hand took my free one. I kept my eyes closed as strong muscles started to lead me in a delicate rise-and-fall waltz around the entire commons area. I knew the place so well that I thought I was leading myself and miraculously not bumping into anything.

Yeah. That wasn't the case.

But I didn't know that.

Until I opened my eyes as the song ended and _I See the Light_ from "Tangled" came on.

I eased one eyelid open to see long, sleek black hair and a pale ear about an inch from my nose. The other eyelid snapped open in surprise and my eyes widened in shock.

I wasn't alone.

"What the—?!" I exclaimed, shoving the newcomer away from me. He stumbled a half-step back while I scrambled to be at least ten feet away. Icy blue eyes with hints of green twinkled in amusement as he grinned mischievously and bowed low. "Loki! What are you doing here?!"

A light chuckle escaped his lips. "It's good to see you too, love," he greeted in that overstatedly _Downton Abbey_ British voice.

"You're not supposed to be here!" I hissed.

"Oh, I _have_ missed you," he remarked mischievously, closing the gap between us and standing so close to me my nose was almost touching the bottom of his sternum (yes, I am that short).

"I've missed you too but you could have given me some warning! I'm in my pajamas!" I protested, quickly becoming aware that my hair was probably a giant mess of tangles and snarls and self-consciously trying to tame it while my God of Mischief just grinned at me. But when I touched my hair it felt soft and smooth.

"Are you?" he teased.

My eyebrows scrunched. My sensory illusions happened so often that I never thought twice if I felt a random weight drop onto my hips—and it started to be that I didn't even notice it anymore. So when I looked down (bumping my forehead on his chest) and saw a full-length poison-purple ball gown with a puffy skirt hanging off my shoulders, I gasped in surprise. "What did you do with my pajamas?" I demanded. Loki laughed, like he was amused that _that's_ what I was thinking about.

"I transformed them into the princess gown you always dreamed you had, love," he told me, laughing. Vaguely I remembered that one time I described the very gown I was wearing in exquisitely minute detail from my imagination. He hadn't seemed to even pay attention at the time so I was very surprised at how accurate the dress really was. "Now, dance with me." That was an order, not a request.

I grinned and took a step closer, feeling my bare feet slide over the mahogany floor. We'd talked almost all the way through the "Tangled" song and _Once Upon a Dream_ from "Sleeping Beauty" had started. Geez, I liked putting my playlist on shuffle.

"I didn't know you liked dancing," I murmured as he very formally took my waist and bright white smile flashed and he gave me a tender, cold kiss.

"Only with you, love," he replied.

* * *

 **End Note: Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**

 **PS, if you want to read them directly from Tumblr, the URL is sassycassie-s-writing . tumblr . com (I'm not super creative with URLs.)**


	2. Like A King (L)

**Author's Note: In Norse mythology, Sigyn (SEEG-an) is Loki's wife. Slightly modified for here.**

 **2) Like A King**

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I was sprawled boredly over Loki's very grand bed, dress spread out, ankles crossed, and hands behind my head, watching Loki stand shirtless in front of his wardrobe. There was an outfit hanging from each door. "Which do you think, Sigyn?" he asked.

"Depends on the occasion," I replied, watching him carefully. _Dang_ he was handsome. Even though I only caught glimpses of his face in the mirror on the door of the wardrobe when he'd shift his weight from side to side he was still striking to the eye. Pale skin with battle scars on the blank canvas of his back sliding over powerful muscles. He was thin but that had never meant he was weak. A few of those battle scars had been given to him by me when we'd sparred in the past. His glossy black hair reached his shoulders but not in a feminine way. His arms weren't as trunk-like and clunky as his older brother's but he was still defined. And it was very attractive.

"I'm taking over Midgard," he supplied.

An amused laugh bubbled out of my throat before I could stop it. "Again?" I inquired. "You know, humans believe the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results." My loving God of Mischief shot me a glare in the mirror, his brilliantly pale blue eyes glinting with hints of green as his magic coiled within him, like it was a snake preparing to strike. I chuckled lightly and in one swift movement I stood up and wrapped my arms around his waist, burying my face into the cool skin of his bare back and breathing in his minty scent.

"You're distracting me, Sigyn," he commented.

I grinned against his spine. "Don't I always?" I teased.

"But seriously, which one should I wear?"

I finally pulled my face away to look between the two outfits. One was older with a lot more green, and the other was newer with more black. "That one," I decided, pointing to the blacker one.

"Why?" Unlike usual, I couldn't tell if he was challenging me or genuinely curious.

"But it makes you look like a king. The other one has a bit more of a court-jester, juvenile feel to it." I let him go and stood next to him instead of behind him, leaning my head against his bare side as he contemplated what I said. I knew he'd choose whichever outfit I thought best because he always did when he came to me for fashion advice.

"Alright. I'll wear this one," he said, pointing to the one I'd picked.

"Then you have to promise me something," I told him.

"Anything for you, love," he replied, holding me close with one arm.

"When you're on Midgard, remember that. You. Are. Mine."

He laughed and kissed the top of my head. "Always, Sigyn. Always."

I went back to my spot on his bed and turned around, giving him some privacy to change into his armor. My magic danced between my fingers as I patiently waited. This happened every so often. He'd ask for advice on what to wear to some occasion or other and I would give it and then wait. Because after he changed he'd ask my opinion on how he looked. I didn't know why he cared so much—I sure as heck didn't care—but I always guessed it had something to do with the fact that he was a prince and had to always be presentable while I was just a nobleman's daughter and didn't matter to the people of Asgard as much.

Loki cleared his throat loudly to get my attention. I smirked and turned around.

" _Nice_ ," I commented.

"Really?" he asked.

"Of course," I answered.

"So how do I look, besides nice?"

I grinned, got off the bed, approached, and rested my hands on his shoulders so that he knew I meant exactly what I said.

"Like a king."

He smiled and gave me a deep, gentle kiss. Both of us closed our eyes and just relished in each other for several long moments. I could feel his hands tangle in my long hair as mine slid from his shoulders to the back of his neck.

When he pulled away from me, I caught a mischievous glint in his eye and to the curl of his grin.

"And what is my queen going to wear?" he inquired. His hands slid from my hair, each one holding a very grand dress. I grinned, feeling a blush rush over my skin. One was bottle green, the same color as my eyes. It was made of silk with a large skirt and darker green embroidery going up the left side from hem to sleeve. The other was a crimson a few shades darker than my hair—but that one was slim and fell straight to the floor. Heck it was practically scandalously human. An unmarried Asgardian woman like myself would _never_ wear a dress like it.

But if Loki genuinely wanted me for his queen…

"This one," I decided, taking the red one into my hands. He covered his eyes with his hands while I pulled it on, letting my simple white dress fall to the ground. When I finished I exposed my back to him so he could do up the ties. His long fingers made short work of doing the corset tight enough that it was secure but loose enough that it was comfortable.

I turned back around for him to see the full effect. "How do I look?" I teased.

Loki gave me a passionate, hungry kiss.

"Like a queen," he whispered, taking my hand.

"Then I suppose we ought to go take over Midgard," I commented. He laughed.

"I suppose so, Sigyn."

* * *

 **End Note: Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	3. Happy New Year (L)

**Author's Note: This one was SUPER LONG! But I loved it anyway.**

 **3) Happy New Year**

* * *

I sat outside the party on the balcony with a bitter expression on my face. Snow was falling, gathering in my hair and resting on my eyelashes for a few moments before melting. I was _so sick_ of winter. I loved its beginnings in December when the snow was white and pure and fluffy and made the road look like it was encrusted with diamonds before cars drove over it or snowplows pushed it away. But it was that one time when they snow was turning gray and black from icky tire-water and everything just looked dead and dank.

I was too busy glaring at the dark storm clouds sending _more snow_ down to notice the door to the balcony ease open. A figure joined me on the balcony, but was so quiet I didn't even notice he was there.

"Beautiful," a voice stated. I jumped and looked to see Loki standing so near me we were almost touching, smiling impishly down at me. A few flakes had landed on his head.

"Sort of," I replied flatly. "I'm kinda sick of it."

"I wasn't talking about the snow," he remarked, taking his green cloak off and draping it around my shoulders. His eyes swept over me, from the hem of my long green dress to the gold plastic tiara in my hair. There was a mischievous grin on his face.

"I hate costume parties," I grumbled.

"So then let's get away," he whispered, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and looking out over the snow-dusted city.

"Where?" I asked desolately.

"Didn't you say that you have a cabin up in the mountains that you love this time of year?"

"Yeah…" I edged.

"Let's go there." I glanced up at his handsome face. He looked down and grinned at me.

"Fine," I conceded.

"Heimdall, if you'd please bounce us."

"Does the Bifrost even work like that?"

"Hold on to me tight."

Loki didn't answer my question though because we were hit with a column of rainbows and were being sucked up and almost instantly pushed down. I shrieked in shock and held his waist. Sure I'd travelled by Bifrost before but that didn't mean I was used to it.

When the rainbows cleared and we were standing in front of my cabin, I just stared at Loki for like two minutes. "Love, if you take a picture it will last longer. That is the phrase Midgardians use I presume?" he sassed. I rolled my eyes, let go of his waist and stalked over to the cabin. We didn't have anything with us except the things we'd taken to the party—meaning pretty much our costumes and my purse that had nothing useful in it except my phone and my iPod. I pulled the spare key out from a loose panel of wood on the outside and unlocked the door.

It was freezing inside. I shivered in Loki's cloak and walked over to the electric fireplace. I turned it on and found the thermostat. It was twenty degrees Fahrenheit. So _below_ freezing. I turned the furnace on, grumbling to myself about not liking the cold, and peeked through the cupboards in the kitchen. My family usually left stuff behind when we came to stay for Christmas break and I wondered what we'd left as I hadn't paid attention. There was enough non-perishable stuff that Loki and I could stay comfortably for at least three days.

Loki followed me in after a moment. He looked very regal in his outfit—dressed like a Victorian-era vampire in mostly black. I was dressed in a green princess vampire gown but didn't feel like I fit the part. Loki very well could have played Dracula in a movie or on stage and command the part better than anyone else ever.

"This is lovely," he complimented, looking around.

"Thanks," I replied as I picked up my skirt in my hands and went up the stairs to the hall of bedrooms and bathrooms. Leaping into my room and sifting through the drawers I found the fleece winter pajamas I always kept up there and sighed with relief—I wouldn't have to wear the dress the whole time. I crossed the hallway and looked in my older brother's room. At 6'4" and broader than my dad, Parker was probably closer to Thor's size than Loki's but Loki would fit into his pajamas and clothes. I pulled the long-sleeved T-shirt and plaid flannel pants out of the top drawer and took them down to Loki. He was standing next to the window, his hand on the glass.

His fingers were turning blue.

I stopped in my tracks at the bottom of the stairs, the cloak around my shoulders _swish_ ing to a halt, and very nearly dropped the small bundle of warm clothes in my arms.

 _So it's true,_ I thought to myself.

Loki had told me very early on in our relationship that he was a Jotun—a Frost Giant. Even though that still pretty much meant nothing to me I never really knew what he'd meant when he'd said that his natural skin was blue and his eyes were red. In that moment, watching his pale skin change color until it disappeared up his sleeve, I knew exactly what he meant. Sometimes I'd wondered if he'd just been yanking my chain—he was the God of Mischief and Lies after all.

I coughed loudly to get his attention. He took his hand off the window and turned.

"So, my brother's clothes will probably fit you," I remarked, holding the bundle out.

He took them from me. "Thank you."

"I'll be right back. I'm going to put my pajamas on. They'll be warmer than our costumes." Before he could say anything I rushed back up the stairs. Once the cloak was cast onto my large bed, I rolled my eyes. "Shoot," I muttered.

The ties for my dress were in the back, in that one spot I just couldn't reach.

After attempting to contort my arms into unnatural positions for a few moments, I heard a gentle knock on the door. "Need some help with your dress, love?" Loki sounded amused.

I sighed heavily and opened the door. He was already in Parker's pajamas and he still looked freaking handsome. "Yes," I relented, looking sad. I turned around, pulled my hair to one shoulder, and gave him my back. I could feel his long fingers brush against the fabric once before the bow on the top was pulled out and the tension in the strings loosened.

"There," he commented as he pulled all the strings so I could wriggle out.

"Remind me to never wear an Asgardian dress to a costume party ever again," I remarked.

"But you look so beautiful!" he protested.

I rolled my eyes. "Thanks. I'm getting my pajamas on." I closed the door and changed. When I opened it again Loki was still there, patiently waiting. He wrapped an arm around my shoulder and we went back downstairs.

In the middle of the sofas we'd replaced the old coffee table with a massive luv-sac. As per tradition, I did a front flip onto it and then scooted over, pulling some blankets off the sofa as Loki cautiously sat next to me. He slowly put his legs up on it and laid back on the wall of pillows as I got a DVD ready to watch. Once it was done, I leaned back next to him and hit _Play_. Glancing at the clock above the TV, I decided that ten-thirty would give us plenty of time to watch the entire thing. So I relaxed and curled up, pulling a blanket over us both and layering one more.

For being a _Frost_ Giant, Loki was surprisingly warm against my side. He wrapped his arms around me and I slid mine around him. It was a very comfortable position.

And before I knew it, I fell asleep.

I woke up to the grandfather clock in the kitchen chiming twelve. "Happy New Year," I murmured groggily.

"Happy New Year, love," Loki replied quietly.

The movie ended and I turned everything off—including the fireplace but excluding the furnace. Loki and I went up the stairs to the hallway. Without even thinking I went into my room and curled up on the far side of the queen-size bed. I was tired and that stupid party had drained all my energy. I didn't even think about Loki. I guess I just assumed he'd go into Parker's room across the hall or my parents' room on the other side of my bathroom.

No. He came into my room and curled his body around me.

Normally sharing a bed with a man I wasn't married to would have scared the death out of me (because I was _that_ Goody-Two-Shoes girl) but I was so tired and so cold that I couldn't even find it in me to be uncomfortable. I just let my face rest against his chest.

Vaguely, before I drifted off to sleep for good, I remembered something I read about how sleeping next to someone increased your trust in them. Allowing both people to be so vulnerable for such a long time released chemicals in the brain that promoted trust or something. As I started to drift off to sleep with snow falling outside, I decided that was probably true.

The next day turned out to be no better when it came to temperature. I woke up to faint, gray light filtering through the closed blinds. I opened them up to see at least ten feet of snow all around. Loki was still sleeping peacefully.

I liked the way he looked when he slept. His usually sharp, knife-like face softened and looked peaceful. The impish curl to his mouth's usual grin was gone, leaving behind serenity.

I closed the blind and snuggled back into his embrace, giving his sharp cheekbone a kiss.

His icy blue eyes under long black eyelashes fluttered open. The laugh lines around his eyes crinkled as he smiled at me.

"Morning," I greeted.

"Already?" he complained jokingly, holding me tighter.

"Unfortunately," I commented.

"Aw! I just want to lie here forever!" He practically cracked my ribs as he crushed me to him. We both laughed, mine edging dangerously close to a girlish giggle—something I did not generally do.

"Me too," I agreed. "But I'm hungry!"

He rolled out of the bed and threw the cloak I'd left over the covers at my head. It wrapped around a bit. I pushed it away and followed him, wrapping the green fabric around my shoulders. It was still cold despite the heater being on all night and I didn't like the cold air. It hurt my face.

Down in the kitchen I found an unopened box of cereal that hadn't expired. We hadn't left any milk behind because it expired too quickly so we ate it dry. I liked it dry.

After breakfast was over, we cuddled on the luv-sac again and watched the snow for a while.

But Loki was restless and got bored.

So I taught him how to play a couple video games. When he got bored of that we snuggled under a blanket together again because it was still cold and put together part of a five-hundred-piece puzzle.

And that was how the day went. Generally we stayed attached at the hip, mostly for warmth, partly for cuddles and fluff.

And as the sun started to go down (at like _five-thirty_ ) we started to just kiss. We were lying side-by-side on the giant bean bag with our arms around each other, kissing. Loki wasn't a chaste kisser anymore—not like he was the first time I kissed him. That time it was like he was trying not to offend me. This time it was more like he was testing how far I was willing to go and respecting when I held back. It was very nice and very long. The last twenty or so hours had been the longest I'd been with him in a single block of time since we met—and it had been a lot of fun.

Once darkness had blanketed the mountains, I'd turned my back for like two minutes and Loki had worked out how to use the stereo. When I turned back (by the way, we were still in our pajamas) he trapped me in his arms and started to dance with me, slow music pulsing out of the speakers. I laughed and rolled with it, only occasionally accidentally treading on his toes.

We ate dinner by candlelight for the heck of it, but then got cold sitting on opposite ends of the table so we finished by sitting together.

Once we were both exhausted, we took turns in the shower. Once again in our pajamas, we braided each other's wet hair. Loki twisted mine into one long one down my spine and I gave him two small ones just above his ears.

Tangled in each other's limbs we watched "Megamind" before heading off to bed.

Again I curled into a tight ball and he wrapped his body around me. His hand rested on the back of my head and my hands were splayed over his back.

"Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year."

With a gentle kiss to my forehead, he whispered in my ear, "I love you."

I grinned tiredly. "I love you, too."

* * *

 **End Note: Right now I'm just going down my document so it'll seem like it's all Loki at the moment, but once I get through Loki, I'm going trough all the Pietro ones and THEN it'll be really sporadic from there as I just add on to what I've already written.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	4. Deal - Part One (L)

**Author's Note: This is PART ONE of a two-part little thing. In particular this is one of the one's I'm most proud of.**

 **4) Deal - Part One**

* * *

Loki was six and Thor was almost eight. At least in terms of mental-age. Asgardian aging was vastly slower than Midgardians'. They were wrestling on the floor, growling at each other, pretending to be wild animals. Even from such a tender age it was easy to see who was stronger. Loki was very slender and slim while Thor was stockier and bulkier and he easily kept his little brother pinned to the floor. "Thor! Gerroff!" Loki grumbled, face pressed into the carpet.

The blond brother laughed and got up.

Loki pounced to his feet and jumped on Thor's back with a, "Hi-yah!" and he yanked him to the ground, rolling to get Thor under him.

Odin opened the door to the empty parlor they were playing in. "Boys," he said, trying to get their attention. Neither of them noticed him. "Thor. Loki." Still nothing. Thor was beating at Loki's arms with his palms but the black-haired brother wasn't relenting. " _Boys!"_ Odin snapped.

The boys shot to attention, instantly standing side-by-side. "Yes father," they said in unison. Loki was already developing a black-eye and Thor's lip was bruised.

The Allfather smiled at his children and entered the parlor properly, pulling two shiny things from his pockets. "Thor, I want you to give this to your mother." He gave his eldest son a necklace with the golden triquetra inlaid with rubies dangling on a gold chain. Thor took it gently in his hands and nodded. "And Loki, I want you to give this to your new baby sister." He passed the other necklace to his younger son. It was a flat silver pendant with the triquetra engraved into it, hanging on a black leather cord. Loki took it in his hands as his and his brother's jaws dropped open.

"A sister?" Loki whispered.

"Yes. Are you ready to meet her?"

The brothers nodded fervently, taking their father's hands. He chuckled and led them to the one of the many healing rooms.

Their mother was propped up on a bed in a nightdress, holding a bundle of white fur in her arms, looking exhausted but happy. Her free hand was stroking something inside the bundle the boys couldn't quite see. Thor let go of Odin's hand and rushed forward to the side of the bed furthest from the bundle, holding out the necklace. "This is for you!" he exclaimed. His mother smiled at her firstborn and ruffled his hair.

"Thank you, my dear," she murmured. Thor got up on his tiptoes and did his best to put the necklace around his mother's neck. When it was obvious he couldn't quite reach, Odin strode forward and finished for him. Thor smiled proudly.

"It looks beautiful on you, mother!"

Frigga chuckled. "Thank you, Thor."

Loki took a few tentative steps into the room, almost feeling like he shouldn't even be there. Frigga caught sight of him and beckoned him closer with her free hand. He approached the side of the bed closest to the bundle of white fur, the necklace clutched tightly in his hand. Thor had climbed up on the chair next to his side in order to see the face of the small baby sticking out of the white.

"It looks like a potato!" the blond decided.

Frigga and Odin both chuckled.

Loki put his hand out when he reached the head of the bed, opening his long pale fingers to reveal the pendant on a nest of black leather. "This is for the baby," he stated.

Frigga smiled and took it from her youngest son's hand. "Thank you, Loki. I'm sure she will love it. But for now, she's sleeping. Come see, both of you," their mother suggested, quietly and gently. Loki climbed carefully up onto the mattress next to his mother and looked at the baby.

A mop of dark brown hair sat firmly on the top of a head that resembled Thor's skin color much more than Loki's. Her eyelids fluttered slightly, showing dark blue eyes.

Loki came to his own decision. "It doesn't look like a potato," he informed his brother. "It's the most beautifulest little girl I've ever seen." Thor made a face and stuck his tongue out at his brother. Loki ignored him. He turned his innocent face up to look at his mother. "So what are you going to call it?" he asked.

"We're going to call _her_ … Freyja," Frigga told her son.

" _Freyja?_ Okay, she's your baby," Loki remarked sarcastically.

Frigga laughed and ruffled her youngest son's hair. "She's your baby too," she said.

"Huh?" Loki asked.

"Well, you're going to help me teach her magic aren't you?"

Loki's mouth dropped open excitedly. "Really?" He bounced in place a little.

"Of course, sweetheart. I think she'd love it, don't you?"

"Yes, yes, yes!" Loki exclaimed.

"If you're careful, I'm sure your mother will let you hold her," Odin said quietly. Thor instantly perked up and sat obediently in the big armchair he'd been standing on to see the baby, holding his arms out. Odin took Freyja from Frigga's arms and instructed Thor how to hold her in his. He kept her for a few minutes, making baby noises. But she just kept sleeping.

After the blond got bored of just staring at a sleeping baby and complained that his arms were getting sore, Loki took his turn. He copied his mother and held her in his left arm—his stronger one—and used his free one to gently stroke her face. As the three eldest members of the family started talking, the two youngest sat in peace. Loki rocked gently back and forth to keep her sleeping, softly humming an old lullaby Frigga used to sing to him when he'd have nightmares.

Frigga nudged Odin's arm and pointed to where Loki was still holding Freyja for far longer than Thor had. The Allfather turned to see his younger son tenderly holding the baby. They could barely hear the hum of the song over Thor's excited chattering but they knew it was there.

It broke Frigga's heart to see Loki so love to his new little sister, yet not know that they weren't even blood-related. She started to cry.

Loki's bright eyes watched little Freyja shift in her sleep, making a tiny gurgling noises and a little baby coo. He smiled and touched the small little button nose. Her eyelids winced but stayed closed. He giggled and held her tighter.

"I love you, Freyja. I'm going to teach you magic and keep suitors away from you. I'm going to show you how to ride a horse and be the first one to dance with you at your first ball. I'm going to always look out for you. And I'm going to protect you," he promised, kissing the baby on the small reddish forehead. She moved her arm slightly and it escaped the fur. Loki put his finger against her palm. On instinct the baby's tiny grip closed around it. He wiggled his finger up and down, as though shaking hands with someone. "It's a deal then."

* * *

 **End Note: OMG I was dying from cute feels when I wrote this.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	5. Deal - Part Two (L)

**Author's Note: This is PART TWO of "Deal" - in which Freyja is a little older. Okay. A LOT older.**

 **5) Deal - Part Two**

* * *

Freyja slammed her hands onto the sturdy table. She'd inherited Thor's strength—hairline fissures appeared in the wood. Her eyes, so dark blue when she was born, had paled to resembled the icy shade of Loki's. She looked to be around fifteen. "Loki!" she snapped. "Don't scare me like that!"

Her older brother cackled mischievously. "It's your first ball, Freyja. I had to give you some adrenaline beforehand so you'd be calm during it," he remarked. "I also came to ask if you need a hand." He grinned while his brunette sister hissed between clenched teeth as the fear eased out of her system. She glared at him through the mirror on her wall.

"Lucky you, I do need help. Otherwise I'd be throwing you out that window," she growled, the magic Loki and Frigga had taught her since she could walk glistening electric green in her pale eyes. "Help with the ties on the back of my dress." She pulled her hair out of the way to reveal loose, criss-crossed strings on her corset-like bodice. The gown was long and a violent shade of bright blue with silver armoring on the arms and chest—just in case something happened. Resting on the very limited space of her bare chest skin was a silver coin-shaped pendant with the triquetra engraved on it hanging from a leather cord.

Her middle brother chuckled and tightened the strings, tying it into a bow at the top. She grunted with each strong tug, but stayed where she was. Her face in the mirror was glittering with a shimmering Asgardian makeup paint that gave her an ethereal look. "There you go. How's that? Too tight?"

"Almost. I'll be fine."

Her brother turned her around and gave her a very tight hug. "Excited? Nervous?"

"All the above?" she suggested, squeezing him around the waist. The young man holding her was more of a father to her than the much older man who had helped her come to be. Loki was the one who taught her magic, and how to wield a dagger if her magic should fail. He held her close at night after she had nightmares. He—though she couldn't remember it—helped her learn how to swallow solid foods by pushing it back into her mouth with a spoon, making faces and noises like Mrs. Incredible in that one Midgardian motion-picture. Loki had been the one to distract her when she was ill. He would read her stories at night to help her fall asleep. And even though she didn't know it, Loki had been silently pushing away would-be admirers and suitors for years, though he let her find the notes and roses that were meant for her so she always knew she was loved. He'd always done far more for her than Odin ever had. Even the adventurous Thor was around Freyja more than her actual father.

"Don't worry. It will be okay. I won't let this night be a bust for you," Loki promised, kissing his sister on the top of her head in the thick brown hair hinted with red and gold.

"Thank you, Loki," Freyja mumbled.

"Now, my princess, let's go shock the Aesir with how beautiful you've grown."

Loki offered his sister his arm. Technically Thor was supposed to be the one escorting her to her first ball because he was the oldest and she was the only girl or some yada, yada, yada Odin had gone on about that Loki hadn't listened to. But Freyja took his elbow carefully and with a huge smile let her brother lead her out of her chambers.

When they reached the grand ballroom, standing at the top of a long staircase, there were trumpets announcing their arrival and loud clapping. Loki caught Odin glaring at them and quickly made sure his sister wouldn't see by pointing to where one of her very few friends was waving at them.

He took her down the steps and started to lead her in her first dance in front of everyone.

Of all the things about tonight she'd been scared for, it was the dancing she was the most concerned about. Loki had taught her how many times, but where he was eerily graceful, she was clumsy. She'd stepped on his toes many-a time whilst waltzing around the parlor just off from her bedchamber to some quiet music that seemed to drift from nowhere. He was always calm during her dance lessons and nothing less than encouraging and supportive. He told her over and over that she'd get it when it counted.

And as he started to waltz with her to minstrels playing, she found the steps flowing from her muscles almost naturally. She wasn't tripping up on the hem of her gown or her own toes.

She gave Loki and excited grin. In return he gave her an encouraging smile.

When the first song was over, a boy around Freyja's age approached. "May I have this dance, Your Highness?" he asked courteously, bowing low.

Freyja's icy blue eyes widened and turned to her brother, looking terrified. He nodded slightly.

"You'll do fine," he whispered to her.

She curtsied to the boy. "Of course you may," she replied.

Loki passed her over to him, giving the youngster a very dark, threatening glare over his sister's shoulder. The look clearly said, "If you hurt her or disrespect her in any way, I will kill you and make it look like an accident." The boy's eyes widened for a moment and he took her away.

As Freyja started dancing with the random admirer, Loki watched carefully. If that kid tried _anything_ with _his_ younger sister he was going to break the kid's hands. There was a scowl to his expression that kept everyone around him away, leaving him in peace to silently protect his sister from the sidelines.

The rest of the ball went like that—except for the bit at the end where the assembled people sang the traditional birthday song to Freyja as she stood, embarrassed and blushing furiously, in front of Odin's throne.

As Loki escorted her out, he found her looking exhausted. "I can see why you said balls aren't that great," she remarked. "I think I'm good to not attend another one for the next decade at least."

Her brother chuckled. "Well, at least you had a good time, right?"

"I had a good time around you. But those other guys were all idiots—just like you always said."

Loki grinned mischievously. "Exactly, Freyja. Exactly."

She laughed. "Oh Loki. You'll never fail to look out for me, will you?"

"No." Loki shook his head. "I knew from the moment I laid eyes on you that you'd always be mine to protect." He escorted her back to her chambers and helped her undo the corset ties on the back of her dress. "Furthermore, I will do my best to always be there for you in the future. Heaven knows Father doesn't spend much time with us, his children. Someone needs to keep the boys away from his little girl." He gave her a wink as she slid her silver nightgown on over her head.

Freyja gave him a hug. "Thank you for tonight, Loki."

"You are welcome, Freyja. Always."

* * *

 **End Note: Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	6. Timing (L)

**Author's Note: I think I forgot to mention the title of the one-shot is the chapter title. I just haven't been listing them. (Not true. I just went back and updated all of them so they're listed.)**

 **6) Timing**

* * *

I cursed under my breath. Loki was getting dangerously close to "one" and I still hadn't found a decent hiding spot. Unlike him, I didn't have magic so it was harder for me to hide. Plus, I didn't know the facility very well yet so I didn't know any good hiding spots.

We were alone in the New Avengers building, running around like children despite the fact that we were both adults. The team had been sent on some crazy mission to some far-off country I'd heard of during that one geography class I'd taken as a requirement as a freshman but I couldn't remember where it was or what it was known for. So I had called my best friend the second they left to start playing games and pranks. (By called I mean I stood on the roof and shouted to the sky telling Heimdall, "If you can hear me, please tell Loki I want him to come see me!" Asgard doesn't have a phone.)

He'd already proven dangerously good at tag so I suggested hide-and-seek. So far I was definitely losing.

But I knew Tony Stark. The man was like an uncle to me. I knew how much he loved secret doors. So I knew there had to be at least one in the facility somewhere. I ran down the halls on silent feet, my hands running down either wall, pushing each panel in hopes of finding a hidden door so I could have a good hiding spot.

Loki hit ten—counting down from sixty. I cursed again and slipped into the nearest doorway—the back door to Wanda's apartment area. She wouldn't mind if I hid as long as I didn't break anything. So I ducked into her coat closet—which was nearly indistinguishable from the wall and _almost_ a secret door—and slid through her jackets (most of them red leather) and pressed my back against the darkest corner. I'd worn black for just this reason. "Four… three… two… ONE! READY OR NOT HERE I COME!" he shouted, British voice echoing through the hallways. He was probably far away but he sounded like he was right outside the door.

Another unfair thing was he could make duplicates of himself that could search with him. He promised he wouldn't use them but he was the God of Lies so I assumed he was lying.

I had very little faith in my best friend and he knew it.

My pulse was racing through my ears while I waited. If I could run on silent feet then he could move on nonexistent feet. It was impossible to know if he was close or closing in. He wasn't a clumsy child who stumbled into things or made lots of noise. The man was like a predator cat.

The door to Wanda's apartment opened. I only knew that because I felt the pressure of the rooms change since the A/C was on.

I held my breath in anticipation. Maybe he wouldn't notice the closet door.

And maybe the moon was made of cheese.

Light flooded the coat closet—everywhere except my dark little corner. My heart was pounding and I was holding my breath. I closed my eyes, as if it would make a difference. The light started to get darker— _Loki was closing the door_!

Nope.

A hand grabbed my wrist and yanked me out of the corner. "Gotcha!" Loki exclaimed, holding my wrist while I was braced against his solid body.

I very nearly swore. "I really thought I had you!"

"Never, sweetheart."

I seethed in frustration. This was at least the seventh round I'd miserably failed at.

"So how about we do something a little more entertaining?" Loki suggested, as if reading my mind.

"Yeah? Like what?" I challenged.

From nowhere, Loki produced a bottle of hair dye. It was purple. "I think the archer would enjoy this shade, don't you think?" he teased with a cheeky wink. I put my tongue on the roof of my mouth and gaped blankly at him.

"You can't be serious," I decided.

"I am very serious," Loki retorted. "I'm the God of Mischief and mischief is what I do best."

I rolled my eyes. "Fine."

He took my hand and we ran off to Clint's apartment. With expert, practiced ease Loki infused Hawkeye's shampoo (raspberry scented—what the heck?!) with the hair dye to the point where Clint probably wouldn't even notice it was there. Plus, given I could usually hear him singing _Hairspray_ songs loudly (I think Tony lied to him and said that his apartments were soundproofed) he probably never even thought twice about what color his shampoo was. "Ohhhh this is going to be good," Loki said with deep relish. I laughed.

"I'll be sure to send you a picture," I remarked sarcastically.

"Be sure you do. What else can we do?" His icy eyes ignited with an excited fire. Their blue flashed with green as his magic and mischief preened inside of him.

I shrugged. "I thought _you_ were the mischievous one," I retorted.

He grinned evilly. "I am. How about we…" He trailed off, grabbing my wrist. He ran, dragging me down the hallway.

We stopped in Steve's room. _Oh cuss,_ I thought.

Loki ran his hand over the row of shirts hanging in the captain's open closet. "They should be more… patriotic," he decided, glancing over his shoulder at me. He waved his hand. "There. That's more like it."

Every single shirt in Steve's closet was suddenly some variation of the American flag.

"Oh my gosh. The team is going to kill me when they get back."

"That's only if they can find you."

"Huh?" I asked eloquently.

With another smirk, Loki took my hand took me out to the spot on the lawn where there were black marks. "Heimdall, if you're ready, we are," Loki said. I stared at him. Was he actually—?!

A column of light smashed into us right as the gates to the facility opened to show the van that generally carried the team around in.

I was sucked up to Asgard before Steve and the others could kill me.

Perfect timing.

* * *

 **End Note: Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	7. Princess - Part One (L)

**Author's Note: This is PART ONE OF FOUR.**

 **7) Princess - Part One**

* * *

I met my imaginary friend when I was four. Of course, he wasn't imaginary—he was real. But no one believed me. No one _ever_ believed me. I was the kid with the overactive imagination who could entertain herself for hours with a string and a couple of magnets.

It started at the park. I never really liked parks. I was an introvert from the beginning and other kids drained my energy faster than that car in _Back to the Future._ But my mom had to drag me along because my older sister and her friend wanted to play at the park and she couldn't leave me home alone. I found myself all alone on a see-saw, looking over at where my sister (aged six at the time) was doing something with her friend. I think they were braiding dandelions into each other's hair or something that my mom would shout at them at later for doing but Mom was talking with some lady she knew from high school or something.

And a flash of green caught my eye.

It was a man. He was loping through the playground and no one was even looking at him—which I of course thought was curious. Of course, he was curious too—in appearance anyway—other than that he looked bored. He was tall and skinny with black hair, pale blue eyes, pale skin, and sharp cheekbones. He was wearing what looked like silver-and-green armor.

That's where everyone decided I was making him up.

I hopped off the see-saw and ran over to him. "Hi!" I greeted, waving enthusiastically, cutting off his path. The tall man tilted his head down to look at me. His eyebrows scrunched.

"Hello, child. How is it you can see me?"

"You're standing right in front of me!" I replied with my four-year-old sass, hands on hips. "Duh!"

He knelt down and tugged on one of my pigtails. "Alright. So you can see me when I'm supposed to be invisible. That is definitely a first." When I got older and looked back on that moment, I realized he sounded as though he was more talking to himself than me.

"Is it? Why are you invisible? How are you invisible?" I demanded excitedly.

"I'm invisible because I have business to attend to—" I didn't know what that meant but I didn't care. He knelt down in front of me and put his hands on my shoulders. "—and I have magic."

I was in the middle of my unicorns-and-fairies-and-magic stage so my eyes widened. "Really?"

The man chuckled. "Yes, really," he replied.

My mouth dropped open. "Show me!"

He smiled and flicked his wrist. My purple shirt and overalls sparkled, leaving behind a dress that shimmered for a moment before turning back into my normal clothes.

"Wow!" I exclaimed. He laughed.

"You remind me of myself—all magic and wonder. It's nice to see some people still believe." My little digital watch beeped on the hour. "I have to run along now, sweet-pea," he told me, standing up to walk away.

"Wait! What's your name?"

"I'm Loki."

"Will I ever see you again?" I wasn't sure, when I was older, why I'd asked that. It just burst from my mouth before I thought about what I was saying. That happened a lot, actually.

"Trust me, you'll see me again."

* * *

 **End Note: The first two parts are super short. Sorry.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	8. Princess - Part Two (L)

**Author's Note: PART TWO OF FOUR**

 **8) Princess - Part Two**

* * *

Every few days for the next five years I saw him. Randomly he'd turn up while I was doing something and slowly I became his friend—but more importantly, he became mine. Every time he came my family claimed they couldn't see him. Loki would wink at me and put a finger to his lips. I'd obediently not talk to him around them except to greet him that one time when I was five and he popped in during family dinner.

He never changed. Not once. The only thing that changed about him was his outfit every so often. He looked the exact same when I was six and was struggling to read _Harry Potter_ for the first time. He'd sat on the edge of my bed and read it aloud over my shoulder. He looked the exact same when I was seven and had a nightmare. He picked up that same book and read it to me while I curled up against his side, weeping. He looked the same when I was eight-and-a-half and learning how to sew a skirt with my aunt for my sister. He hadn't said anything to me that time, electing instead to silently chuckle at me failing.

No one believed me when I said he was real. No one, not even my best friend, believed me when I said I could _touch_ him—and that made him real. I was still just the kid with the overactive imagination. My teachers would humor me when I said Loki was making faces at them behind their backs and that was why I would randomly laughing, but I knew they didn't believe me either. Even though I stubbornly knew to myself that he was _not_ imaginary and did indeed have magic, I started to tell everyone that I had grown up and he was gone. But he wasn't. Not for a long time.

Then when I was nine, he vanished. He came to me one last time when I was doing homework and perched on the edge of my desk like he'd done so many other times. This was the first change I'd ever seen in him. He looked tired and ragged and… broken. "I can't come here anymore," he told me sadly, putting his hand on the top of my head so that I was looking more at his arm than his face. I didn't know then but that was a deliberate move on his part so I couldn't see him as well.

I stood up and put my arms around him. "Why? What's happened?" I asked.

He shook his head. "I wish I could tell you, princess. But I can't. I promise I'll come back for you someday. But I can't be here now." I felt him kiss the top of my head.

And just like that, he vanished.

Standing in my room, suddenly lost on what to do, I realized something.

Never once, over the course of the five years that I'd known him, had he ever called me by my name. He never even asked for it. I assume he knew it since he watched me learn how to write it in cursive and had helped me stamp my name in all my books. But he never called me anything besides "sweet-pea" or "princess."

I started to cry.

* * *

 **End Note: Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	9. Princess - Part Three (L)

**Author's Note: PART THREE OF FOUR**

 **9) Princess - Part Three**

* * *

Over the next ten years, I started to wonder if I _did_ dream him up. Four years old to nine was a very young, very impressionable age in which a child will believe almost anything. Particularly me. I was the kid with the overactive imagination. And Loki had always been everything I thought of and more. He'd given me all sorts of strange things—like a pretend wand and a pair of glittery shoes. Everything like that disappeared in the same moment he did. I had nothing to remember him by. So I started to believe myself that he was just imaginary. As I got older I realized that was actually really logical.

When I finally graduated high school I started working for an organization called SHIELD. I could have gone to any university I wanted, I had the grades and the SAT scores to do so, but I just wanted to throw myself into the world and never look back.

I was sat in an office somewhere—that I guessed was Agent Barton's given there was a foam archery target in the corner (vaguely I wondered why Barton would need an office)—when I heard the door open behind me. I'd been ordered in by a senior agent and I wasn't going to argue. As far as I knew I hadn't done anything wrong but I guessed I was in trouble so I didn't turn around, just kept my head bowed, staring at my knees.

"Princess," an achingly familiar voice with a British accent said quietly behind me.

My eyes widened and my jaw dropped. I hadn't heard that voice in _ten years_. Snapping to my feet and whirling around, I stared at my imaginary friend.

My Loki.

He looked the same apart from the fact that his hair was longer and he was wearing black leather with gold armoring and green highlights instead of the silver with the green cape. I skirted around the chair I'd been sitting in and approached him carefully, wondering if he was real or if I was imagining things. I was heavily favoring the latter as I lifted one hand and poked him in the abs. He leaned back a bit but didn't fall. "It's me. I'm here. I promised you I'd come back."

I promptly slapped him in the face.

"What is _wrong_ with you?!" I demanded. "For the past _ten years_ I've been all by myself, starting to wonder if you ever even existed. I started to think I'd dreamed you up because I was so lonely that I needed a friend!"

Loki put his long, pale hand over my mouth, body shimmering green, holding me close as Deputy Director Hill walked past. Apparently she didn't notice us. Once she was out of earshot he let me go and there was another flash of green. "I know, sweet-pea. I know I've been gone for a long time. I didn't want to leave you but I was going through something of an identity crisis and I needed to sort my life out. Trust me when I say it took longer than I thought it would." His icy blue eyes were almost watering as he looked me dead in the eye. "You were always so sweet and full of amazement. I missed you more than I missed anyone else while I was… away."

I stared silently. Anger and pain and frustration were pounding through my veins but I didn't know what to do. I was skilled at combat but I was so lost in my own mind that I couldn't even bring myself to land another solid hit. All that I managed to say was a squeaky, "Why?"

"I told you, I had an identity crisis and I had to go… find myself for lack of a better term."

"No. Why did you come back?"

"I told you. I promised you I would one day. And that day is today. I came back _for_ you."

"Meaning what?" I asked, voice sounding strained and almost hoarse.

Loki took me into a strong hug. The smell of mint I remembered from my childhood flooding my nose, sending me back to happy memories. "Meaning I missed too much of your life and I wasn't there to help you when you needed me, and I don't want to miss any more." He pushed me out to arm's length to better see me. "Would you please accompany me for dinner tonight so we can catch up?" he asked. I stared at him blankly. "Six? That one restaurant you used to love—what was it called…?—Robintino's! I even brought you something to wear!"

From nowhere he produced the grown-up version of the purple dress he'd shown me fifteen years before. Except it went from little-girl princess ball gown to grown-up young woman evening gown.

"Oh my gosh," I whispered. "I-it's beautiful!"

Loki flicked his wrist and my SHIELD uniform shimmered away, replacing it with the dress.

"Come, princess, let's leave this place."

I smirked. "You made some illusion of the senior agent to get me alone in here."

"Yes I did. Do you think you can get off early?" He offered me his arm.

"I think so." I took it and we ran out of the building.

Or at least, I tried. He'd also replaced my functional boots with high heels. So I stumbled. I wasn't made to run in heels. I wasn't made to run, period. So Loki swept me off my feet—quite literally—winked, and ran with me in his arms.

* * *

 **End Note: Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	10. Princess - Part Four (L)

**Author's Note: PART FOUR OF FOUR**

 **10) Princess - Part Four**

* * *

Robintino's was almost empty—we made it there before the dinnertime rush. The seating hostess grinned at us. Loki had at some point changed his armor to a sharp suit with a thin bottle green tie and _dang_ was he handsome. "Name, and how many?"

"Loki. Just us two."

Another cheesy grin and she grabbed a pair of menus and led us back into the main body of the restaurant. It was an Italian place my family had been going to since before I was born.

We were seated in a booth kind of away from everyone else.

Loki looked at me very seriously. "Now. Tell me everything—everything that's happened since I had to leave."

So I did. And when I was finished, I said one more thing. "And I noticed you have never called me by my name. When I was around fourteen I started to wonder if you even knew what it was." Loki chuckled and looked me right in the eye again.

"Cass. Or rather, Cassiopeia. But you hate your full first name because it sounds too old."

"You remembered that rant."

"Yes I did."

We talked and told stories for the next hour or so until we were both about halfway through our meals and conversation ended. Loki was staring at me and I was trying my best to avoid eye contact because I realized how awkward I felt. The man sitting across from me was a _god_ from another culture and all I saw was my childhood best friend that no one had believed I had. I glanced up at him through my eyelashes. Loki gave me a look.

"I didn't realize," he commented.

"Didn't realize what?" I challenged.

"How beautiful you'd grow up to be."

"Oh _please_ ," I complained. "That is so cliché!"

"You'd better be careful, princess. If you keep looking at me like that I might kiss you," he warned.

"And that's a bad thing?" I teased.

Loki hesitated. "Well…" He trailed off. His hands slid across the table and took both of mine.

I bit my lower lip and grinned cheekily.

I was expecting a kiss. I _wasn't_ expecting a heavy make-out session.

But that's what I got. And I'm not complaining.

He leaned across the table and hit his lips to mine. Our faces sort of suctioned together and there was no way we were leaving the table for what was probably going to be a very long time.

Which of course meant the waitress had to come and ruin it. "Can I get you anything else?" I heard her hiccup in surprise and then rush away. My eyes opened just a bit to see Loki roll his eyes. We pulled apart just long enough to laugh at what happened and then leaned back in.

From that moment on, nothing was ever quite the same between my imaginary friend and me. Partially because now everyone could see him, partially because he'd taken my "virgin lips".

"You know, _Cass_ , I'm glad we did this."

"Me too," I agreed, pressing my forehead to his.

* * *

I crossed my ankles, three months later, staring out at the sunset with my head on Loki's shoulder. "Did I tell you that I'm really glad you're back? I mean, I'm still angry that you were gone for so long but I am happy that I have my best friend again." We'd been dating off and on since he showed up in my life again, and I was having a good time, I just didn't know how I felt about it sometimes.

"You did tell me that. Once," he remarked.

We sat in silence for several long moments before he turned to look at me. I pressed my lips together in a closed-mouth smile and looked up at him.

"Did I tell you that I've fallen in love with you?" he asked.

My very relaxed, nonchalant feeling was gone in an instant. I snapped up straight and looked at him. "What?! No! You've never told me that!"

He laughed. "I could have sworn…" he teased, trailing off, kissing my nose.

A furious blush swam over my skin, making me feel very warm all of the sudden. "Yeah. You didn't tell me." I clamped my mouth shut. If I kept talking I'd start to blabber and then all of my decorum would up and vanish—not something I wanted.

"Hmm. Well, my princess, you know now."

I buried my face in his chest. "I guess now would be a good time to admit I've fallen in love with you too," I mumbled, voice muffled by his leather-and-metal outfit. I felt one of his arms wrap around my shoulders and the other around my waist, holding me tightly in his embrace. Given all the layers and the fact that he was a Frost Giant (turns out that was part of his identity crisis) the hug was kind of colder than I expected, but I didn't mind in the least.

It was me and Loki, trapped in each other's arms, surrounded by our imaginations.

"Now would be the best time, princess."

"I love you, Loki."

"I love you too, Cass. My Cass."

* * *

 **End Note: Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	11. That's Not How the Game Works (L)

**Author's Note: This one is slightly different - it's in second-person! Trust me when I say it was a pain in the neck to write.**

 **11) That's Not How the Game Works!**

* * *

You glance around at the assorted Avengers—and Loki. Thor had dragged him down to lowly Midgard from on high to learn important lessons. He'd been there for around three months. Thor thought it was working wonders on his younger brother's soul. Loki obviously didn't agree as he'd spent most of his time here in a cloud of doom and gloom, glaring at everyone.

And then he noticed you.

You weren't sure if he was trying to torment you or what, but he'd been flirting with you all night—and as a silver tongue, he was doing quite a good job. You weren't sure why he chose you, either, but he had and there was no shaking him off.

At first it had been something of a game, but now, as the other party guests had left, leaving only the Avengers, you were really getting sick of it.

Currently, you are sitting with Captain Rogers, Jane Foster, and Thor in between you and him. He is giving you a very sarcastic but seductive look around the bulk of the two naturally biggest and blondest members of the team and his brother's sort-of girlfriend. You give him a triumphant smirk. Thor is sitting next to him and any attempt at advancing on you on Loki's part will get the God of Thunder's arm around his brother's waist and have Loki hurled back into his spot on the couch. You give him a victorious wink and sit back, relaxing next to Steve for the first time since the party started.

Tony stands up; a mischievous grin to rival Loki's curling his mouth. Instantly your blood runs cold and you feel your stomach drop to your toes. Any idea he had was certain to be a bad one. "And now, my dear friends, it's time for…" He pauses, presumably for dramatic effect. " _Seven minutes in heaven!"_ You are not alone in groaning with complaint, but now Tony's got an idea in his head and there's no way in all Nine Realms he's giving it up.

Pepper, complying only because she's guaranteed to go into the closet with Tony, passes around Thor's heavy metal helmet with wings and feathers. Everyone rolls their eyes but pulls their nametags off, and drops them in. Tony had probably insisted everyone wear nametags just for this moment. Who knew how long he'd been planning this?

The billionaire closes his eyes and digs his hand deep into the bowl of Thor's helmet. You cross your fingers that it's not you. This is a bad idea and you have half a mind to just run away now and lock yourself in your room.

But if you do that Loki will come after you—and the slight chance that you'll spend seven minutes locked in a closet with him is better than the one-hundred-percent chance of spending several hours trying to ward him off. So you stay.

"Our first contestant is…!" He pulls out a tag. " _You!"_ Dramatically he points at you.

"How did I know?" you grumble sarcastically under your breath as, next to you, Steve gives you an apologetic look.

"And you, my dear, are going to be paired with…!" Tony offers the helmet to Pepper. Vaguely you wonder what will happen if they draw out Steve and Tony together or something along those lines. Would the rules to SMIH still apply? But you don't have time to ponder for long because Pepper has selected a tag and withdrawn it. Already your throat constricts in frustration and exasperation as you catch a glimpse of the handwriting and the ink.

"You!" Pepper announces, giving you an _I'm so sorry about this,_ expression, and her hand points to…

Loki.

It's Loki's turn to give you an triumphant smirk as Tony hauls you to your feet and shoves you and the trickster out of the main room, into the corridor, and then into a closet. After you face-plant several leather jackets—that probably belong to Steve, Tony, and Wanda—you scowl at the demigod as he chuckles.

He snares his arms around your waist, his cool hands holding you tightly to his armored chest. "Finally," he murmurs seductively, leaning close to you. "We have some _alone_ time."

You want to tell him to bite you, to buzz off, to get away from you and leave you alone—that you're sick of his advances because as charming as he is you still see him as nothing more than a bratty demigod with daddy issues. But the game has rules and Tony would be very angry if you break them. "That's not how the game works!" he'd complain—and you know it.

And Loki knows it. The smile on his face _shows_ that he knows it.

So you give up. Tony's wrath would last far longer than the stupid game and then you can go back to your life as it was and pretend the seven minutes in the dark closet had never happened.

Loki pulls you down by the waist to sit on his lap as he crosses his legs on the ground. You sigh and for the sake of comfort wrap your legs around his waist and rest your feet on the ground behind him. "That's more like it, love," he murmurs, running a single cold finger down your jawline and stopping at the bottom of your chin. He pinches your chin lightly and draws your face closer to his.

The first kiss he gives you is chaste—a gentle peck that barely brushes your lips. Almost as though he doesn't want to offend you.

The next one is harsh and hungry. He jumps over light kissing and deep kissing and bounds straight to heavily making out—something you weren't quite sure you were prepared for. He hungrily tests how far you're willing to go—and shockingly respecting when you pull back.

When he finally pulls away he keeps his arms around your back and keeps his forehead pressed to yours. "I've never been one for expressing feelings," he says. "I don't like emotions. They're messy and they get in the way. But, you… _you_ make me feel things that I don't want to feel. Warmth and light. You make my heart jump and my blood run warm. I don't like it. I don't like the way I feel when I'm around you. But I like the way I feel about you. I… I think… no. I _know_ that I love you."

This was definitely not something you thought would happen when you woke up this morning.

As if Loki's words were a key, a floodgate of emotion smashes through your head, swirling repressed feelings. You like him. You just didn't know it until now. Your mind repressed it because you knew you could never be with him. He would never like a pathetic mortal like you.

But here he is, confessing to you.

You grab his face with your hands and kiss him as hard as you can.

"I'm pretty sure I love you too," you reply. He smiles against your lips.

You spend the next several minutes kissing passionately, reveling in each other's raw emotion.

When Tony comes to fetch you and send the next couple out, you refuse to leave.

"That's not how the game works!" he protests.

You don't care. You're not going anywhere.

* * *

 **End Note: How was that, eh? :-D**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	12. Seven Minutes in Where! (L)

**Author's Note: Super-similar to the last one because they were based off similar prompts. (I think I forgot to mention almost all of these are based on prompts and "Imagines" from Tumblr. Now you know!) Also in second-person! Also a pain to write! It's also the closest I'll ever get to _really_ swearing.**

 **12) Seven Minutes in... _Where?_**

* * *

You generally get the vibe that Loki hates you. He never looks you in the eye nor does he ever even speak to you—unless absolutely necessary. You didn't think you'd given him _that bad_ of a first impression when you first met several months ago, but since he's come to the new Avengers facility in upstate New York with you and the rest of the team he's just been a pill.

Except that one time when he helped you put purple hair dye in Tony's shampoo, but he pretends like it never happened.

So when he avoids you the entire time you're both in the same room at the party Tony threw for Steve's ninety-something birthday, you can't say you're particularly surprised. You decide to have fun. After all, you and Steve are good friends and you're not going to let any irritation towards the trickster get to you. Especially not tonight of all nights.

There aren't hundreds of people at the party—unlike usual. It's just the team and their pill tonight. So it's the same intimate party games like the ones that came _after_ most of Tony's parties. It was going quite well with Truth-or-Dare and even Duck-Duck-Goose—up until a slightly-drunk Tony decided it would be a _great idea_ to play Seven Minutes in Heaven. The moment the words leave his lips you know that this is the worst idea he's had in weeks—and that includes the exploding-purple-M &M-incident of two days ago.

After everyone's names are in the bowl that had once contained pretzels (Thor and Steve had gone through those like wildfire on a dry hill), Tony shakes it a few times.

Unfortunately, you're sitting right next to him and he passes it to you. "And who do you get to enjoy the next seven minutes with?" The man was like your uncle or your father but that drunken slur in his voice was _not_ comforting. You hadn't had anything to drink tonight because after the last mission you'd gone on you were injured and put on a medication that dictated no alcohol.

You close your eyes and put your hand deep in the bowl. Heck, if you choose Thor or Steve, the next seven minutes may not be too bad.

It's almost ironic that _E.T._ by Katy Perry starts pounding out of the speakers when you finally pull a slip out of the plastic bowl. With a sigh, you announce it. "I will be spending seven minutes in heaven with… _Loki."_ You can't help but roll your eyes. _Of course I get the guy who hates me,_ you think bitterly.

Smirking evilly, the pill stands up and takes your hand. He leads you briskly out of the main room, leaning down to you.

"More like seven minutes in Hel," he whispers.

Your blood runs cold. Yup. Your feeling that he hates you is _so_ confirmed.

He leads you into the small room just off from the party and shouts at Tony to start the timer. Once he slams the two of you into darkness, you feel his arms wrap around your shoulders. Is he going to break your back? What's he doing? Panicked thoughts tumble dangerously through your head as his grip tightens to the point where you _know_ you're not going anywhere. Music from the party room is still audible, but only the bass beat.

A soft kiss is pressed to your forehead.

You freeze.

That certainly wasn't what you expected.

You suddenly get the feeling that he's waiting. Waiting for you to make the next move. He's leaving it up to you.

A floodgate of raw emotion hits you like a tidal wave. It's definitely a mix of emotions. There's relief, confusion, excitement, and something burning you're not sure you want to identify. He doesn't hate you—and, almost more importantly, he isn't going to kill you. There was the relief and excitement. The confusion is left over from the light kiss you can still feel on your forehead.

Which leaves only the burning in your chest and mind.

And though you don't want it to be identified, per se, it is anyway.

Passion.

It slams into you both, but Loki is still holding back, waiting for you.

You wiggle your arms up through his hold so that they're around his neck, lacing your fingers together behind his neck. You stare up at his icy blue eyes. In the darkness, with his magic curling and preening within him, those pale eyes are hinted with electric green that practically glows.

You pull the back of his neck so that his head comes down and you kiss him.

It's almost as though Loki is shocked. He leans into the kiss but his eyes widen at the beginning. "I thought you hated me," he whispers.

You snicker. "I thought _you_ hated _me_ ," you tell him.

He shakes his head, overlong black hair brushing the sides of your face. "Never. I stayed away because there was no way one as amazing as you could ever be interested a monster like me."

"I never thought a god would be interested in a pathetic mortal like me."

"Well, then, we were running around in circles of misunderstanding."

"Yeah, well, that's the circle of life," you joke. From the blank look to his eyes obviously he doesn't understand the Lion King reference but he kisses you again, passionately, hungrily, testing how far you're willing to go while he has you here, trapped in his embrace. You never want to leave the slightly chill arms of the Frost-Giant-Asgardian because where you are is where you always subconsciously wished to be, no matter how much your mind suppressed it.

When the seven minutes are up and the timer goes off, Tony comes to take you two back to the main party room. He throws the door to the small, dark room open. It reveals you and Loki to the entire team.

And you two are still kissing.

There's no way you're letting him go, and there's no way he's letting _you_ go.

* * *

 **End Note: Thanks for reading! If you couldn't tell from similarities to Ch 6, TIMING, I'm not very creative with pranks either. I know it's like annoyingly similar to the previous but too bad. I enjoyed writing both of them. For now though, I think I'm going to stick with 1st and 3rd person.**

 **Again, thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	13. Extraterrestrial (L)

**Author's Note: Guess what I was listening to nonstop when I wrote this?**

 **13) Extraterrestrial**

* * *

Loki smashed the palm of his hand into the dashboard, growling in frustration. "Careful," I warned from the driver's seat. "If you hit that thing too hard you'll deploy the airbag and break your face." He scoffed sarcastically and not for the first or last time I wondered why I was dating him. "What's wrong?"

"I have that _stupid_ music stuck in my head and it _refuses to leave!"_ he exclaimed.

"What song?" I asked curiously.

In a very poor imitation of Katy Perry, he started to sing _E.T._ —while I started laughing my head off. We'd listened to that song _once_ on the radio earlier in the day! Using my powers, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and set it on the dashboard. The AUX cord snaked through the air and plugged into the headphone jack. I kept most of my concentration on the road but we were on a long stretch of abandoned freeway at four in the morning so I could put a little bit of my mind into my powers.

I had three options at that juncture—play an even more annoying song in an attempt to get it out of his head, play all sorts of different songs to get it out of his head to spare _my_ sanity, or play _E.T._ on repeat just to annoy him even more because I was _that_ kind of girlfriend.

Although, one of the reasons people get songs stuck in their head is because the brain is trying to finish it (not always)—so playing the song was actually a good idea.

That's what I chose to do. I knew the lyrics by heart and I belted them out—loudly—while Loki seethed in frustration. We were heading from the Avengers Tower to the New Avengers Facility in upstate New York and had a nice drive ahead of us (don't ask why Tony called at three-thirty in the morning and requested our immediate presence). Loki slouched, sliding down in his seat and glared out the window as I turned the volume up. It wasn't like we were annoying anyone—there weren't any houses for another several miles and by that time I could turn the volume down.

It really is amazing how much _nothing_ there is in New York just outside one of the most populous cities in the country.

When the song started over and got to the chorus ("Kiss me ki-ki-kiss me!"), I grabbed the lapel of Loki's leather jacket (the only time he shed his Asgardian armor was when he was going to be alone with me for a long time because he knew I wouldn't judge him for not looking his absolute best), dragged him closer to me, and gave him a strong kiss. My powers were driving for me—don't worry and stop judging me.

I was pretty sure _this_ was why I kept dating him. For moments like this.

Mostly because I loved the look on his face when I pulled away. He looked shocked, slightly terrified, and really confused. "What was that for?" he demanded.

"Well I knew you weren't going to kiss me when the lyrics called for it so I decided to kiss you," I retorted sassily, cackling with laughter. Loki stared blankly at the road while I paused the music so that I wouldn't miss anything.

As I wound back down to my more relaxed state in silence—I was really tired and everything is funnier at four in the morning right?—Loki started to hum the song to himself. But my car was small. Small enough that all sound waves made inside could be heard. So I could hear him humming. He was actually a lot better at singing than a lot of people would give him credit for. When he was in a good mood I could get him to do Disney duets with me—but that was _only_ if we were alone in the Tower or the car.

I started the music again, letting the song run on loop for a few more times and then taking it off repeat and putting on some Fall Out Boy.

"You're judging me," I commented after Loki hadn't said anything when the songs changed.

"I am not!" he protested. "Your music tastes are just very varying and I was trying to reconcile why you like this as well as the Toccata in D-Minor and Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. Or songs such as A Whole New World and Once Upon a December or Dream." He paused. "And that one Taylor Swift song," he added as an afterthought.

I snickered. The only reason I had that Taylor Swift song on my phone was because I had been suffering from the very thing he was suffering from right then—earworm. Or rather, having a song stuck in one's head. I'd only known like one line of _Blank Space_ but I knew the tune and so I'd been singing it for an entire week once until I almost ripped my hair out. I'd downloaded the song and listened to it until I had all the words memorized and I hadn't had it stuck in my head since.

Now, _Far Too Young to Die_ by Panic! At The Disco was another matter…

"Yeah," I agreed. "But at least I have a massive variety of music to choose from. Does Asgard?"

Loki deflated. "No. Mostly we have had the same music for thousands of years."

I sighed dramatically. "You have _no idea_ how boring that sounds!" I exclaimed.

"I do, actually," he remarked. "I have hoped for new types of music back home since I was a very young boy. The problem with Asgard is nothing ever changes. Odin is so set in his ways—in his flawed belief that Asgardians are all-powerful—that he refuses to let us adapt."

"Sounds like my uncle," I commented sarcastically.

"Trust me, sweetheart, he's a lot worse than your uncle."

We were getting closer to the N.A.F., Loki still humming Katy Perry even though Fall Out Boy was blasting as loud as my sensitive-from-sleep ears could safely handle.

"You're from a whole 'nother world… a different dimension…" Loki sang quietly during the lull between songs on my playlist.

"Want me to play that song again?" I asked.

"No!" he replied forcefully.

Trying to keep a kind of long story short here, he sang Katy Perry for three days, nonstop. I could hear him in the next apartment over at the NAF, singing it in the shower—but only the like four lines he knew. It was quite hilarious and all the other Avengers present hated me because if he started singing it, I'd pick up the lines he didn't know and quite effectively we got it stuck in _everyone's_ heads.

To this day, that's probably the thing I'm the most proud of.

* * *

 **End Note: Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	14. You Know What! (L)

**Author's Note: This one was a blast to write.**

 **14) You Know What?!**

* * *

Thor nudged Sif and Fandral in the arm the second I entered the room. And I knew exactly why. " _Here comes the show_ ," Volstagg mouthed to the others. Hogun was already edging towards the door I had come in through.

But, thankfully, Loki hadn't noticed me yet. The moment he realized I was there was the moment Thor, Sif, and the Warriors Three would either leave, or watch me and the younger prince fight. There was no escape from it. Our opinions differed on too many things. Did I try to be civil when he said, "Oh! The weather today is _dreadful_!" even though I thought the pounding rain had a beauty all its own? Yes. I was the one who tried not to fight because I was sick and tired of shouting, getting angry, and then crying because I was angry.

As I walked past Loki to find where I had laid my daggers down earlier, I heard him sigh. " _Here we go_ ," he muttered.

And I snapped.

"You know what?" I demanded, whirling around as I buckled my daggers to my belt. "I had every intention of coming in here and not saying a word to you so I could just get in and get out. And then _you_ go and assume that since I'm here something bad is going to happen! I get that you're all high-and-mighty prince and I'm no one particularly important but you don't know everything about me! Maybe I'm sick of all the arguing!" Already my ears and neck were growing warm from a blush of frustration.

Loki stood from the sofa he'd been sitting on, jaw closed. He spoke my name tightly, through clenched teeth. "I've been trying my best to be cordial to you since the day we met," he said.

Hogun disappeared out the door.

"Yet you're the one who always starts fighting," I spat.

And that snapped Loki. "IT'S NOT MY FAULT YOU ARE AN INSOLENT CHILD!" he shouted.

"AND IT'S NOT MY FAULT THAT YOU'RE A SPOILED, CONFRONTATIONAL BRAT WHO THINKS HE SHOULD ALWAYS GET HIS WAY!" I retorted. "AT SOME POINT YOU HAVE TO LEARN THAT NOT EVERYONE IS ALWAYS GOING TO AGREE WITH YOU JUST BECAUSE YOU'RE THE PRINCE OF ASGARD!"

I think I actually shocked him because he took a half-step recoil.

"Learn who you are speaking to!" he snapped.

"You haven't earned my respect!"

"Respect should be given to one's superiors!"

"Not if they're _you!_ " I sassed sarcastically.

"Is this why you fight me all the time?!"

"Excuse you, _sir_ , you started it!"

That was the worst fight we'd ever been in. And we were fighting about our fights. Heck, it was almost funny. There must have been three times I busted out in maniacal laughter because I was so angry.

At some point during our shouting match, Thor and his remaining friends fled the room.

To be honest, I can barely remember what we said.

Finally, we were standing literally toe-to-toe with our faces inches apart, both of us with red cheeks and glaring. We'd both run out of words to say after ending with, "I HATE YOU!" and, "I HATE YOU MORE!" His icy blue eyes were livid as he stared unblinkingly at me. My breathing was heavy and my black gaze was narrowed at him.

The angry tension between us made the air crackle with magic and fury.

By the way, no. I don't remember who instigated the kiss.

I just knew we were suddenly grabbing each other's faces and angrily, heavily, _passionately_ making out.

I don't even care which one of us started it. I don't even know how long it lasted but it seemed like a long time.

Loki broke away first. Both of us were panting and staring at each other, wide-eyed. My mouth was open in shock and his was too. It was probably the most awkward, tense moment of my entire life—and I'd been alive for nearly a thousand Midgard years.

"Never happened?" he asked finally.

I nodded fervently. " _Never_ happened."

Securing my dagger belt a bit tighter, I ran from the room as fast as I possibly could.

* * *

For months we neither fought, nor spoke, nor even looked at each other. I was still way too embarrassed and evidently he was too. Thor thought our sudden silence was a mighty improvement on our usual behavior that had been going on for decades—even though he had no idea what started it or why we were suddenly not even on cordial speaking terms.

Occasionally Sif would come into my room in the middle of the night and try to trick an answer out of me about what happened, but I'd been evading Loki's tricks for decades so it was easy to slide past hers.

The silence between us lasted for a year.

Then the stupid ball had to come.

I had no idea Thor liked his birthday so much.

But, nevertheless, I found myself in the massive ballroom in my best dress (still with daggers hidden in straps on my legs), watching everyone drink. I liked my quiet corner and my water. Okay, yeah, maybe I was paranoid that Frost Giants would bust in and everyone would be too drunk to handle them so I was staying stone-cold sober but I'd been a warrior my entire life and I knew things like that had the potential to happen.

A figure in silver and green approached me, also looking sober. "I think I've finally worked out all my emotions," Loki remarked. "Everything that's happened over the past hundred years or so—with our relationship I mean." I blinked to show I was listening. "And if I don't apologize now, I don't think I ever will. May I have this dance?" There was no sarcasm in his voice or his manner as he held his hand out for me.

"Sure," I replied, taking his fingers. "I think I've finally worked my feelings out too. And… I _am_ sorry for the way I've acted for the past several decades. It was immature—not to mention rude and disrespectful." He held my waist and hand, pulling me so close to his body that I could have felt his heartbeat if I leaned my head forward a bit.

"I have not earned your respect," Loki reminded me.

"That shouldn't have mattered."

"Actually, what you said made a lot of sense to me—it made me change my mind about my ideas for respect. It should be earned and not given. And I wanted to apologize for that too."

I leaned my head back a bit. "Looks like we both have a lot to apologize for."

"It would seem so." We were waltzing. Loki handled it very well, with grace. I was a warrior before I was a dancer so I stumbled over my toes for a little bit before I really got the hang of it. "Let's hope that we can both make up for our failures as friends in the future."

I raised one eyebrow. "Friends?" I quoted. "I don't think 'friends' was the word to describe us."

Loki chuckled. "Perhaps not. Do you think we can be friends now?"

"Yes. I think so."

We spent the whole night dancing together, except when I got tired of wearing heels so Loki went with me to go take them off and rest our feet for a minute.

He put his hand on my leg as I moved to get up. "I would like to get to know you better. Would you accompany me to the feast after all this dancing is over?" Both of my eyebrows raised this time as I turned to face him properly.

"Are you asking me on a date?" I asked.

"If you'd like to use Midgardian terms, then, yes, I believe I am."

"I'd love to."

* * *

We started "dating" not long afterwards—much to the delight of Thor and his friends. The first time Loki kissed me ( _properly_ ), Sif rolled her eyes, Thor shouted, "ABOUT TIME!" and the Warriors Three started applauding. It was slightly sarcastic. We hadn't even realized they were there—the only thing we'd decided was to have our first _proper_ kiss in the same parlor where we'd had our worst fight and our first _less-than-proper_ kiss.

"Guys!" Loki and I protested in harmony. Thor and the Warriors Three _giggled_ and ran off. Sif gave a brief apology and followed them.

"Where were we?" Loki asked.

I tapped his bottom lip, thankful the arguments and bickering were over. "Somewhere around here."

* * *

 **End Note: Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	15. Vibrations - Part One (L)

**Author's Note: This is Part One of two. Out of all the one-shots I've written, I'm probably prouder of this one than almost any other one. Honestly. (It has _nothing_ to do with the fact that I'm a Deaf Studies Major. At all.) The SL grammar isn't written in ASL word-order for a predominantly hearing audience who would think I don't know how to write.**

 _Italics are written or emphasized_

 _"Italics in quotes are spoken/lipread"_

 **[Bold in brackets is sign language]**

 **15) Vibrations**

* * *

I closed my eyes.

I'd put a comma at the end of that sentence and add "listening", but… uh… I can't hear. So yeah. I'm profoundly deaf in both ears and have no residual hearing whatsoever. I was just born that way. And that's okay. The only reason I wore hearing aids (that were fake—and also purple) was so that "normal" (hearing) people around me knew I was deaf. So no, I wasn't listening, but I was feeling. Feeling vibrations sing through the air, caressing my bare skin. I was wearing a tank top and shorts in the middle of the night in northern Canada. But the below-freezing temperatures didn't bother me—I'd been given a great gift by a great friend that meant I could wear anything I wanted in the icy wasteland and feel like I was in my pajamas back home.

It was really great to have a best friend who was a Frost Giant, sometimes. As long as he was touching my skin, the cold affected me just as much as it affected him—which was not at all. At that particular moment he was kneeling behind where I was kneeling, his hand was on my shoulder so as not to disturb my "listening"—as the other Avengers lovingly nicknamed it.

A few flickers danced over my skin, teasing my nerve endings.

I pointed to my left, quickly scribbling on my small-ish white board that the Separatists' camp was exactly ten miles _that way_. I even drew an arrow pointing.

The archer—Hawkeye—had once had a brief stint of being deaf himself after firing a sonic arrow, but later regaining his hearing when SHIELD gave him some weird futuristic reconstructive surgery, so he gave me a very clumsy, **[How do you know that?]** in sign language.

 _I can feel the troops moving and generators humming,_ I wrote. My scrawl was messy so Loki read it out loud to the rest of the team. We'd had many long written conversations in the past and he was one of the only people who could read my I-need-to-write-this-down-quickly-or-I'll-forget handwriting. I saw the team's heads nod in understanding and felt the vibrations of their vocal chords as their mouths formed into "Oh!"s. I was good at lip reading, to a certain extent, but couldn't talk myself.

 _"Loki, stay behind. We'll take care of the camp. You take care of her,"_ Steve must have instructed my best friend—that's what it looked like he said anyway. Loki nodded. The team moved out.

The God of Mischief sat on the cold dirt and gathered me to him. I sat on his lap sideways and let his hands hold my arm tightly. I turned my head and looked directly at him. He grinned and poked my fake hearing aid. My free hand put two fingers on his Adam's Apple to I knew if he used a guttural sound. " _It's okay. Everything is okay."_ I felt the "k"s in my fingers, and it helped me know what he said.

 _I know. I'm not worried,_ I scribbled.

I wish at this point I could describe us killing time for the next ten minutes listening to the wind rushing through the trees and the sound of night-dwellers and the river—if there was one nearby. But, alas, for me there was only silence. I didn't mind silence. I didn't know anything different.

Then the team came back and we were headed home. " _Good job, kiddo,"_ Steve said to me after I put my fingers on his neck. No one minded when I did it—they all knew why.

I wrote a very fancy, _Thank you!_ , on my board and showed it to him whilst signing **[Thank you]** _._

He gave me a grin in return and ruffled the loose hairs that had escaped my braid.

Loki appeared behind me and wrapped a blanket around my shoulders that fell all the way to the floor—it helped dim the vivacity of the Quinjet's vibrations. " _Sleep,_ " he ordered, pulling me closer. He picked me up and sat me down on his lap again. Holding me in his arms gently, he stroked my braid until I fell asleep—without the humming of the Quinjet and the tired babble of the rest of the team in my ears like a hearing person would probably describe at this point.

I woke up in my own bed in the New Avengers Facility in upstate New York to my pillow-alarm vibrating violently. The fact that I hadn't woken up earlier shocked me—I was generally a very light sleeper. I rushed around my room, getting ready. I'm sure I was quite noisy but how would I know? I didn't have a decibel meter in my room.

My phone vibrated. I glanced down at it. _Debrief. Need you. Now,_ Loki had sent me. His texts were always short because he could barely work out how to use a cell phone—which I found funny given he always claimed Asgard was more advanced than we were.

I pursed my lips as I felt the huge air conditioners outside shudder to a start and I ran off for the conference room, grabbing my white board on the way out.

When I got there, Loki pointed to the empty seat next to him. He had a smaller white board on the table in front of him, with a green marker sitting on top of it. I had two—a blue one and a purple one. I smiled brightly at him and slid into the seat he'd saved for me. _How was your sleep?_ His handwriting never failed to be anything less than elegant—even if he wrote faster than I did. To be honest, it made me insanely jealous. I wanted handwriting like his. He'd tried to teach me but without speaking he'd gotten very frustrated. I had too because I didn't know what exactly he was trying to get across. We both gave up.

 _Great,_ I wrote, doing my best to copy his gorgeous letters.

I was pretty sure his voice was like his penmanship—proper, refined, and beautiful in a very masculine way. I assumed everyone's voice was like that—reflective of their handwriting. Steve's was slightly old-fashioned and probably quiet. Tony's was brash and careless. Thor's was just like Loki's, just bolder and probably louder. Natasha's was sly but to the point. Clint's was… the best word I'd use would be dry. Bruce's was probably soft-spoken, but detailed, and highly intelligent. So I guessed that if I knew how to use my voice (I knew I would make noises because my throat would vibrate, I just didn't know what those noises sounded like) it would be quick, probably loud, and slurred together, but with all the proper grammar.

 _Something you want to share with the rest of the class? –Tony_ , Loki said, pushing his board into my line of sight given I wasn't paying attention.

 _NO_ —the two letters took up almost my entire board and I showed them sassily to the genius. I erased them quickly and then wrote, _Mind your own business, old man!_ But the billionaire couldn't read it so Loki voiced it for me.

Tony gave me a very affronted expression. I gave him a sassy one.

I spent the meeting doodling on my board—only writing down my thoughts on the mission when Loki told me to. I wasn't needed at this stupid meeting. All I did was figure out where the camp was from where we landed. The whole mission had taken maybe a half-hour. So, in my most legible handwriting, I asked if I could be excused.

Steve, Captain de Facto-Leader, nodded. I grinned, popped to my feet, and trotted out of the room, giving Loki a wink on my way out.

I spent the next twenty minutes aimlessly wandering the base. I bumped into the Avenger trainees—Falcon, Scarlet Witch, the Vision, and War Machine—all having lunch in the cafeteria. They waved and said a few things I didn't catch because they weren't facing me, and then I went back to my meandering. I was enveloped in peace and quiet—as usual—enjoying myself. There was so much to see. There were former SHIELD agents all running around, trying to get stuff done; there were half-finished experiments of Stark and Banner's, chilling out in laboratories; there were arrows occasionally sticking out of walls, courtesy of Hawkeye when he was annoyed. Heck, there was even a massive hole in one wall where Thor had hit Cap's shield and blasted some lightning right through it.

Before I knew it, I'd been walking the halls with no purpose for an hour, pointlessly absorbing all the vibrations. So I figured it was time to head back to my bedroom—maybe I'd text Loki and we'd take three hours to watch a ninety-minute movie so he could write down all the dialogue for me.

Just as I was passing the communications lab (I have no idea why we have one, by the way), a movement caught my eye.

Being deaf, I'm very perceptive of movement—it's the only way people can get my attention unless they want to flash light at me or turn them all off—but this one wasn't meant for me. I turned my head to see my best friend sitting in a corner, gazing intently at a computer screen. His icy blue eyes were glittering with green—his magic was flexing.

At first, I figured he was just practicing spells—that lab wasn't being used for much else. But then why was he on YouTube? I doubted Earth had Asgardian spell-casting uploaded to that site—despite the fact that it had just about everything on it. I slid the door open (I'm pretty sure it was silent given I didn't feel it vibrate) and carefully approached him.

I halted in my tracks. Did I just see—?

I stomped my foot to get his attention, feeling my entire leg shake on impact, but he didn't seem to hear me—which was super frustrating since that usually did the trick with both hearing _and_ deaf people.

Then he moved slightly. His overlong hair shifted to show the earbuds he was wearing.

I rolled my eyes and got closer.

When I was literally close enough to sniff his hair if I wanted to (I didn't), he noticed me—though, I think I scared him a bit because he jumped. He pulled the earbuds out and gave me a smile. I smiled back, looking a bit confused and curious. He bit his lower lip and looked down at his knees for only a moment. Then his pale blue gaze snapped back up to me and the grin grew wider.

His hands lifted from his lap and hung in empty space for a moment.

 **[It's nice to finally talk to you]** , he signed, carefully, sheepishly.

I broke down in tears.

* * *

 **End Note: See why I love this one so much?**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	16. Vibrations - Part Two (L)

**Author's Note: Part Two of Two!**

 _Italics are written or emphasized_

 _"Italics in quotes are spoken/lipread"_

 **[Bold in brackets is sign language]**

 **16) Vibrations - Part Two**

* * *

Loki crouched behind me, just as he had in Canada, looking at me, waiting. He lifted a hand. **[What?]** he asked.

I shook my head. **[Nothing.]** I replied.

We were in pairs for the mission, split up to surround the base. I could feel my powers—besides my sensitivity to the world's vibrations—preening within me, waiting to be set free. I hardly ever used them because they scared me, but I'd kept them in for far too long and they were fighting to get out. Loki knew me well enough to know this and was subsequently staying several feet away from me for his own safety.

I really hoped we wouldn't die on the mission—we'd _just_ worked out how to turn on the subtitles and closed captions on the TV in my room (we're not idiots I promise, Tony just reprogrammed all the TVs so that the CC menu was nearly impossible to find) and had been halfway through _The Matrix_ when we were summoned.

 **[Steve says from now on, absolute silence,]** my partner informed me after a moment of pressing his comm-link deeper into his ear.

It was all I could do not to snort. **[Please. Like that's going to be a problem for us,]** I signed back sarcastically. He gave me a mischievous grin and wink, patting my shoulder. I smirked back and turned my attention back to the base between all of us.

Loki grabbed my shoulder. **[Wait. Now Captain Stars-and-Stripes is telling me to tell you to use your power. We have the element of surprise.]**

I shrugged. **[Tell him okay.]**

 **[Go.]**

I crept forward as the radio silence continued. My powers seemed to whisper under my skin, feather-light brushing my nerve endings. A grin tugged up the corners of my mouth. My sharp eyes flicked around the facility. I could see where everyone else was hiding just by the slightest twitch of leaves or the way the grass swayed around them. I'd make a good protégé for Hawkeye if I wanted—but I didn't. I liked myself just the way I was—powers and all.

When I cleared the bushes Loki and I were hidden behind and made it into the vast open space where the base was, I pursed my lips and closed my eyes.

The entire building was vibrating—singing its own unique song to my skin. My ears twitched as though I was listening even though I wasn't. It was just their reaction. I spread my arms out to either side of me, palms facing toward the building. I had a precious few seconds before the security cameras noticed me. So it was now or never.

The earth started to shake violently—but only around the base. Wind started blowing, sending my hair flying around my face. The water from the nearby river was rearing into the sky like a snake or a horse, pounding the side of the structure relentlessly. And then the fire came from my hands. I hurled all of the elements at the building at once. Boulders flew from the woods behind my team and I, smashing the walls and creating entrances. The fire made a barrier around the outside so no one inside could escape. Wind and water stung at the workers inside, making them run for the outside where we were waiting for them.

I could _sense_ Loki smiling behind me. He'd always loved mischief and mayhem. That was probably one of the reasons we were such good friends. The other reason being we were both the outsiders of the group. He was their former nemesis, and I couldn't hear a word they said—which was a remarkably bad thing in the heat of battle when one would cry out a warning to look out and I didn't hear them. Neither of us belonged, but both of us were there since we had nowhere else to go.

As men and women spilled from the base that was still getting smashed by the elements, Loki grabbed my shoulder. I looked at him. **[Wait,]** he signed carefully.

 **[For what?]** I challenged.

 **[Wait,]** Loki repeated. **[Wait… wait… wait… NOW!]**

I blasted the building with all the strength I had to keep everything up. The last few people finally came out of the base as the other Avengers swooped in to make their moves. They gathered the workers—or whatever they were—and invaded the building. Loki and I crept back to the shadows. The both of us were creatures of the periphery, preferring the sidelines rather than the heat of battle.

My best friend and I made our way back to the Avengers' Quinjet. We weren't needed anymore, according to a quick sign of **[We're finished,]** from Loki after he'd heard something over the comms. I sat in the cargo bay and leaned my head on his shoulder. He wrapped my blanket around me.

For months Clint had been signing the word **[Chemistry]** and giving me a very suggestive look whenever he saw me and Loki together. He seemed to think there was something going on between me and the trickster. The most recent time I think I threw a dictionary at him. It might have been an encyclopedia. He learned to stop bugging me while I was in the library. I just liked being close to Loki because he was the only one who really understood me. Clint came second, but Loki always came first. He was the one who _tried_ to understand my situation.

After about twenty minutes of us just relaxing, occasionally using a single sign to speak to each other, **[Okay?], [Yeah. You?], [Yeah.]** , the other Avengers got on the jet. Clint gave me a cocked eyebrow and went right to the cockpit when I glared at him and fire sparked in my hand. I didn't have any more strength to hold up any sort of element for long at that moment—I'd spent it all on the base—but he didn't know that.

When we got home, Loki and I sat on my bed and turned _The Matrix_ back on. I could feel the speakers, the air conditioners, the lights overhead, and the other people in the facility vibrating, even wrapped up in like two blankets.

Loki was stroking my hair while I read the captions intensely. I forgot he was even there.

 **[Would you like to go out to dinner with me tonight?]** he asked after the movie was over.

 **[Like a date?]**

 **[If you'd like.]**

I raised my eyebrows. **[Sure!]**

He winked at me. **[I'll pick you up in an hour.]** Loki gave me a side-arm hug, kissed the top of my head, and left my room. I stared after him, confused. Had I seriously just been asked on my first date? Most guys didn't want to ask out a deaf girl because they knew how massive the communication barrier was. But my best friend, who'd spent the past several months learning sign language, had just asked me out on a date!

I know I must have made a squeal noise because my vocal chords vibrated, and I started to get ready. This was going to be so exciting!

* * *

 **End Note: I didn't like the sequel so much as the first one, but I still loved this story so much! Hope y'all enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it!**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	17. Cast Out (L)

**Author's Note: This prompt was imagining Loki as a "fallen angel". So I did. I'm the kid with the overactive imagination. :-D (Also I've been listening to the same Panic! At The Disco song for like four hours on repeat. My roommates are going to hate me if I ever unplug my headphones.)**

 **17) Cast Out**

* * *

I bent over slightly to combat the rain falling heavily, starting the five-minute walk from my college to my apartment nearby. When I reached my fourth-floor place, there was a man on the ground outside my door. He was wearing a black leather outfit highlighted by gold armoring and green accents. His hair was long and black. His skin was pale. And his eyes… oh his eyes.

They were pale blue—like ice—but glimmering with green.

He was handsome—there was no denying that. He was lying on his side, facing me. His eyes lifted until he looked me in the face. "Help me," he whispered, voice raspy.

Then he said my name in a breathy sigh.

I froze in place, keys dangling from my hand limply, staring at him from several paces away. I'd never met him before—nor had I ever even seen him before in my life. Who was this guy? How did he know my name? What was he doing in front of my apartment? Why was he looking at me like that—like we were long-time mates?

He shook his head. "It's alright. I won't hurt you. I just… need… help." He sounded like he was in agonizing pain. His accent was British—almost overstated-ly so.

I took a tentative step closer, eyeing him carefully and suspiciously, making sure whoever he was wasn't playing a trick on me. He was lying on the ground and his legs were bent at odd angles—I doubted he'd be able to hurt me even if he wanted to.

I halted again and gasped.

Extending from his back, also bent in unnatural directions, were two twelve-foot black wings.

They were almost ripped off his back—and slightly bloody.

He chuckled. "Yeah. They're not… so impressive now, love, I… assure you," he muttered sarcastically, still struggling to speak through pain. "You should have… seen them before they were… broken." When I stayed silent he rolled his eerie eyes. "Darling, you can… come closer. I already… told you I'm not going to… hurt you." So, with a beckoning motion from his hand, I took a few steps nearer to him—glad for the moment that my roommates were all in class or out of town. I leaned down and tried to help him up. I was pretty sure his legs were broken, not just his… wings. (What on Earth was happening to my life?)

He managed to stagger to his feet, leaning heavily on me. I supported his surprisingly light weight as best I could, opening the front door to my apartment and leading him inside. I set him down on the sofa—glad he wasn't covered in blood or something like that. "So… what's your name?" I asked tentatively. Up until that moment, he had done all the talking. And he knew mine. So I figured I'd ask for his. He gave me an ethereal white smile.

"Loki," he answered.

I raised my eyebrows. "Like the angel."

"You're looking at him, love."

"Oh. Well… okay then." To use the word "nonplussed" (so confused or shocked one didn't know how to react) would be the understatement of the century.

"Or rather, you're looking at what's left of him," Loki amended, losing the pauses as his voice gained strength.

"Huh?" I inquired, eloquently, as I sat next to him, unsure of how to help.

"I was once a great and powerful angel, with _glorious_ white wings and _armies_ at my command. Then, one day, a single slip of the tongue of one unimportant foot-soldier and I was cast out. My wings were broken and burned to black, falling from grace at ten-thousand miles per hour. I made the stupid choice to try and land on my feet. That didn't work out so well either." He scoffed bitterly.

"What got you thrown out?" I asked, putting my hand on his knee as though I was comforting him.

"I fell in love with a—" He cut himself off with a choking sound as I set one of his legs so it was no longer bent at a wrong angle. "— _human_ ," he finished, glaring at me out of the corners of his eyes. I shrugged nonchalantly at his scowl.

"Was the foot-soldier lying? Were you kicked out for no reason?"

"No."

"Ooooh! Which human then? Do I know… them?" I was going to say _her_ but it was best not to assume too much.

"You've actually known her all your life."

"Emily?" (My best friend of many years was only a few months younger than me.) "Well, I must say you've got great taste in women—"

" _Not_ Emily," he retorted.

"Sarah then," I said. She was two months older than me and we grew up good friends.

He shook his head, overlong hair tapping each cheek with its momentum. "Humans really are dense, aren't they? No wonder we have to protect them," he muttered, more to himself it seemed than to me. I raised my eyebrows and opened my mouth to be offended but he cut me off. "It's _you_." I blinked in surprise—this had never happened to me before and I didn't know how to deal with it. So I just looked at him for several long moments, not blinking or saying a word. And then finally…

"Oh."

And I set his other leg.

Loki yowled in pain while I closed my eyes and winced at the sound.

"Though, to be honest, I can think of better people to reveal yourself to," I commented, trying for casual and likely failing miserably as my voice quivered. "Like, I don't know, maybe, a doctor?" I'd never really had to keep a level head during a situation like this and wasn't sure how exactly I was coping. I'm pretty sure, looking back on it, that all my emotions just shut down because I had no clue what to do. But in that moment I hadn't a clue.

"No. Not a single person on your planet would accept me as the monster I've become. The outcast that no longer belongs anywhere and no longer has a home. I couldn't reveal myself to anyone—and almost didn't to you. But I need you to know how I feel—it was the reason I was flung from the sky by my own older brother."

I bit my lower lip, rubbing some chapstick off on my teeth. "Why? Why me? There are billions of women on this planet. Why let a foot-soldier know?"

Loki scowled at the ugly carpet. "I didn't. He eavesdropped on my conversation with a trusted colleague and instantly informed the archangel. As for why you—that one's easy. You are intelligent, kind, passionate, and just sassy enough to be likeable without getting on everyone's nerves. That's a fine line to dance on. I was the one assigned to be your guardian angel—to watch out for you and protect you from everything that could come your way before its time. Normally guardians don't start to fall in love with their charges, but with you I never stood a chance." I wasn't sure, at that point, if I was flattered or creeped out. Probably somewhere in the middle.

I wanted to set his wings while he was talking, but I also wanted to hear everything. So at that moment, the second he paused for breath, I jerked first one, then the other, bones back into place so they'd heal correctly.

He hissed through clenched teeth.

"There. At least you'll heal properly," I remarked.

Loki gave me a quick scowl before he sighed. "The pain is temporary. If I wasn't thrown out, it wouldn't have hurt at all."

"Well, you were thrown out because of me, I figured I could patch you up."

Loki lifted a hand and tapped the simple silver chain hanging around my neck. "I'm not complaining that I fell. It means that I finally get to see your corporeal form with my own two eyes—instead of just watching through the Guardians' Mirror." He looked me in the eye as I sat down again next to him, wondering how I should go about trying to heal where his wings were practically ripped away from his body. He licked his chapped lips. "May I… may I kiss you?"

I lifted my eyebrows for a moment, wondering. I could tell he was still in a lot of pain but his eyes looked so broken. He had no reason to lie to me (I think). I couldn't think of any reason other than scientific skepticism to doubt that he was actually telling me the truth that he was a fallen angel. I'd never _disbelieved_ in them particularly.

So I bit my lower lip for just a moment. "Yes. You may."

He kissed me. A chaste, quick thing on my lips. "Thank you. That made getting cast out worth it."

* * *

 **End Note: I love writing wing!fics. I honestly do. Like, I know humans wouldn't be able to handle having wings (we can't even handle having different skin tones! Geez!) but I love the idea of it.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**

 **PS, each wing is actually twelve-foot-four because each wing is twice as long as he is tall, but just rounding down to twelve-foot sounded better. *shrugs***


	18. Honor (L)

**Author's Note: HOLY FREAKING COW! Last Loki one-shot I've written up till this point. Now we can move on to other characters! I didn't realize how many I'd written. Wow.**

 **18) Honor**

* * *

I ducked under Clint's haymaker, delivering a blow to his side in the same moment. He winced but otherwise didn't seem to even realize he'd been hit. I wrinkled my nose in displeasure. I needed to hit harder or else I wasn't going to do any damage.

I saw Loki silently leaned against a wall, watching me go through my rounds. He'd already seen me take on Natasha. Clint and Natasha were my speed training. Thor and Steve would be strength later.

He hadn't said a single word the entire time. It was kind of annoying actually. I wanted him to tell me what I was doing wrong from the side, like Steve was. I wanted him to _yell_ at me or _something_. I didn't like sensing his silent judgment. He watched every movement with apathetic, impassive eyes, saying nothing, arms crossed, mouth closed.

Not that I had a lot of concentration to spare on what the god of mischief was up to.

I was too busy kicking Clint's feet out from under him.

He fell to the ground with a _thud_ and was almost instantly back up. I cursed silently as he hit me in the kidney but pushed the pain out of my mind—it wasn't that bad anyway.

I sparred with Hawkeye for what felt like a half hour, but was probably only a few more minutes. Since I was still a trainee, I lost since I was nowhere near as good at combat as the master assassins and other Avengers.

So when I was done, I flopped on the floor to take a breath, panting with a towel and a water bottle. My upper lip tasted salty—I was dehydrated. I guzzled my water and dried my sweat.

"Okay, kiddo," Steve started, coming up to me and offering his hand. "Time for strength training."

"Five more minutes," I muttered, taking another drink and closing my eyes.

"Can't do that, kid. You gotta get up. We all got a schedule to keep—even you."

I sighed heavily. "Fine!" I grabbed his hand and let him haul me up.

I threw my towel and water bottle to the side and stepped into the boxing ring. We strapped on our gloves. "You're going to hit as hard as you can. I'll swipe for you to dodge, so you have to always keep on your toes. Got it?" he asked. I nodded and shifted most of my weight to my toes, not looking at Steve's face in order to concentrate on the weird mat-gloves he was wearing for me to hit. I narrowed my eyes and shut most of my brain off to focus.

We started. I would just _hit, hit, hit, hit, hit_. Never ending for as long as I could. Occasionally he'd take a swing at me that I'd duck under before popping back up and going back at it. Sweat started pouring down my face and back. I could feel it getting caught on the scar that extended between my shoulders every once in a while.

Then, as my mind started to wander because of the repetition, Steve hit me in the chest and I didn't manage to dodge. The hit knocked me off my feet and sent me slamming to the ground, hitting my back. I managed to keep my head up so I didn't hit my head. All the breath rushed out of my lungs.

The entire gym looked like it was upside down and doubled for a few moments.

Loki pushed off the wall and stood up straight, unfolding his arms. "Oi!" he protested. "She is a _lady_ and should be treated as such!"

I rolled my eyes. "Loki, this is what I'm training for."

He shook his head. "No, love. You're not to be treated in such a vile way."

You know, I'd always got the vibe that Loki hated me. He called me "love" in a derogatory way. "Oh buzz off. I'm fine." I stood up to prove my point.

But at that point, Loki had climbed up into the ring and was standing between me and Captain Rogers. "What gives _you_ the right to lay your hands on a woman in such a way? No woman deserves to be treated like that! It's rude and downright unchivalrous!" he ranted. "I thought you were supposed to be the gentleman from a simpler time that knew how to treat a lady correctly!"

"Loki, stop being a drama queen," I snapped, grabbing him by the collar of his leather outfit.

"No. I will not stand for such poor conduct in my presence!" he informed me imperiously.

"Then leave!" I retorted sharply. "No one is forcing you to be here!"

"Actually I am," Thor put in.

I seethed through clenched teeth. "Fine."

Steve was turning red in the face. "This is what she's training for! She's trying to be a hero! She doesn't mind getting a few hits here and there! I'm giving her a realistic representation of what would happen if she were actually in a battle!"

"That doesn't change anything!"

"Loki, stop being dramatic!" I protested.

"No! You are a female and females are to be treated with the utmost respect!"

I rolled my eyes and sighed heavily. "Look, Loki. I can take a hit. It didn't even hurt that badly."

"That doesn't matter, love."

"On the contrary," I snapped. "While I genuinely appreciate your concern for my well-being, this is _training_ —these are things that have to happen or else I won't get better at what I do."

"This isn't about your well-being so much as it's about your honor."

I face-palmed. Why was he being such an idiot? "My _honor_. Okay." It almost wasn't worth it to argue. He was so set in his beliefs about women—though I wasn't sure why because his pal Lady Sif was a freakin' bada**—that he refused to listen. He didn't believe females were inferior, he just believed that men should treat women better than men treat men. Or something. He'd given Thor a whole passionate tirade about it the other day that I'd walked in on and promptly walked out of given I didn't want either of them to notice me. But I'd eavesdropped for a second outside the door before carrying on my own business in the next room over.

"Yes, love. Your _honor_. You deserve to be treated like a princess, even if you are not one."

At that point, I gave up arguing.

* * *

 **End Note: Two of my biggest headcanons are that Loki is left-handed (no one will convince me otherwise) and the biggest drama queen ever to grace the Nine Realms aside from Sirius Black.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	19. MY HAIR IS PURPLE! (Clint)

**Author's Note: We interrupt the never-ending Loki broadcast to bring you Clint Barton! As a request from my dear friend callieandjack, this is a sort-of-sequel to one-shot number 6 "Timing".**

 **19) MY HAIR IS PURPLE!**

* * *

Clint raised his eyebrows as the last strands of light from the Bifrost faded away. "Did Heimdall just take her to Asgard?" Thor asked, sounding confused, and echoing Clint's thoughts exactly.

"Her who?" Tony inquired, not looking up from his tablet.

"The only member of the team we left on base, you dolt," Wanda retorted.

"Oh right," the genius muttered.

When they went into the facility, they shouted for me, kind of guessing but not exactly realizing I wasn't there—instead I was watching from some weird reflection pool on Asgard with Loki by my side, grinning crazily. In particular we were following the actions of Captain Rogers and Hawkeye with the utmost curiosity. Though I will narrate this as though I'm not even here.

Clint went staggering into his apartment-area, tired, rumpled, messy, grimy and irritated. He looked at his reflection in the mirror and pursed his lips, thinking to himself that it had been a long day.

Since the battle with Ultron in Sokovia, he found himself thinking, "It's been a long day," quite a lot.

Every time it reminded him of Pietro Maximoff.

And every time it hurt his heart a bit.

He stared at his own blue-gray eyes in the mirror and heaved a heavy sigh. Sometimes he wondered if he was getting too old for Avenging. It was his job—though he was never exactly sure if he enjoyed it or not—and he kept doing it, but sometimes it seemed like it was time to kick back, relax, and retire from the battlefield. He'd been fighting and training his entire life. Every time he took someone else's life away from them, it took a toll on his soul.

He'd never convince Natasha to retire with him, come live with him and his family on the farm or something, give up the fight. She didn't know anything else, even if she wanted something different. It would terrify her to leave all she knew behind—even if she wouldn't admit it.

For a moment he cast his memories back to his best friend's first few months after he decided not to kill her and instead take her under his wing—bird pun totally intended. She had a very bizarre sense of humor. Because she didn't know how to _connect_ with other humans and had to learn how from _him_ of all people—and even then he wasn't too good at it either.

Needless to say, for around five years everyone was a little bit wary around the former-assassin partners who had a very skewed sense of the word "funny."

He screwed up his face for a moment, closed his eyes to relax them, and moved to get ready for a nice, _long_ , warm shower.

At this point I will cut in and say lucky us the reflection pool had one of those censoring bars—like in the Sims video games—that blurred or otherwise covered up areas we didn't exactly want to see while he got undressed to get in the shower.

Probably thinking he was funny, Loki put his hand over my eyes.

I shoved it away and pulled my phone out of my pocket. After taking a moment to make sure that the camera could, in fact, see Clint, I got it ready.

Okay. I'm out again. Ta!

He rubbed shampoo through his hair, eyes closed and singing Hairspray at the top of his lungs. The bubbles forming on the top of his head were a pale shade of lilac, though he was too tired to even notice that they weren't white like usual. All he knew about his shampoo was that it smelled like raspberries—his favorite because it smelled like Laura. He was enjoying himself immensely, because his eyes were closed and he didn't even notice the violet bubbles sliding from his hair. As he worked his way through _Hey Mama Welcome to the Sixties_ and _Ladies' Choice_ , he scrubbed the dirt and grime from the mission with a shower pouf—whilst also using it as a microphone. It was good to get his mind off everything for a while, delve a little into Broadway.

For a while, when he was an orphan being raised in a carnival with his older brother, he thought about becoming an actor. He was pretty decent at it, but the carnies thought he'd never make it. He'd let them control his life for a long time. So he'd convinced himself that they were right and squashed that hopeless dream almost as quickly as he'd thought of it.

He shook his head to clear out the negative thoughts and started up on _You Can't Stop the Beat_. That song always made him feel better. He smiled as he sang and danced a little, careful not to move his feet or he'd slip and fall. And he didn't want to slip and fall.

When he was done, he got out of the shower and started to dry off. His hair was already dry. He wrapped his towel around his waist and used another one to rub the fog off the mirror so he could at least tame his crazy hair.

A shriek of shock ripped from his throat. "What the h—"

"Language!" Natasha called from her bathroom on the other side of the wall.

On the _other, other_ side of his bathroom he heard Steve groan with complaint. "That's _still_ not going away?" he demanded.

"Nope!" Natasha yelled. "What's up Clint?"

"MY HAIR IS PURPLE!" he shouted at the top of his voice.

The Black Widow made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a squeal. Ten seconds later, she was standing at the entrance to his bathroom, laughing her head off. She pulled out her phone and took a few pictures. "Oh I'm _so_ sending these to Laura!" the assassin exclaimed.

"Nat! This is not funny!" he protested.

"All evidence to the contrary, Clint," she retorted, still laughing.

"My hair is purple!"

"I can see that."

" _Why is my hair purple?!"_

At that point, Steve had joined Natasha at the entrance to Clint's bathroom. He put his hand over his mouth to hide the snicker that escaped before he could even bother to try and stop it. "It's a good look on you," the captain remarked, voice straining from trying not to laugh. Heck yeah it was funny, but his friend looked so angry and mortified.

"But why?" Clint groaned.

"Loki," Natasha suddenly hissed.

"What?" both men asked.

"The Bifrost. We saw the last bit of it vanish when we pulled in. It's no secret to the team that Loki is that baby girl's best friend. Everyone's seen security footage of when we leave her alone. He shows up within ten minutes and they play games. They must have decided to play a prank on you," Black Widow reasoned. Steve closed his eyes and leaned his head back. Both master assassins noticed and turned to look at him. "What?"

"That explains my closet," Cap muttered.

"What do you mean?"

"One moment." The old man left. Clint closed the door to the bathroom on his best friend's face and put jeans on and a T-shirt—which unfortunately, was also purple. That hadn't been planned. He opened the door again to Natasha leaned against the wall, phone out and sending pictures to Laura. She took a couple more while Clint glared at her.

Then Steve came back.

He had his entire shirt supply with him.

They were _all_ some variation of the American flag.

Natasha started laughing and even Clint managed a chuckle—it was harder for the archer to find his sense of humor though. His dignity was severely wounded.

"When that _infant_ gets back, I'm going to murder her," Clint muttered. "And her stupid friend too."

"Aw, darlin'!" a new voice protested. "Don't be like that!"

They all turned to see me standing nonchalantly.

Clint's face dropped.

I gave them a grin, and staying true to one of the few of my nicknames that _wasn't_ baby-related (Swift-Foot), took off running, cackling my head off. I could hear Clint running after me, chasing me through the facility. Sure he had a longer stride, but I'd still beat him. I always did.

"Get back here you frickin' fetus!" he shouted at me.

I ran outside, straight into Loki's arms, and we vanished with a rainbow column of light.

* * *

 **End Note: Teehee. Loved writing this one. It was interesting, narratively-speaking.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	20. Inferna (Pietro)

**Author's Note: Hello, and welcome to the all-new, never-ending broadcast of Pietro Maximoff/Quicksilver one-shots! (Just kidding. They'll end at some point.)**

 **20) Inferna**

* * *

Pietro and Wanda stepped carefully out of the van, eyeing Clint Barton carefully. "What is this?" Quicksilver asked curiously.

"A carnival, kid!" Clint exclaimed as his children piled out after the twins. "Let's go!"

They went through all sorts of side-shows and stalls and booths, looking around the labyrinth of things for several hours until they made their way to the massive makeshift stage in the back—the main event. Just in time—it was starting. Clint ushered Cooper and Lila into seats on one side of him and had the twins sit on his other side. Laura was home with little Nathaniel but Clint had dragged the four "kids" to the carnival—more for his own fun than theirs.

The main event came on the stage.

It was a girl. Probably in her early twenties—maybe even late teens. She had long orange hair tinted with blood red and bright gold. Her eyes were brown with a hint of orange. She was short, and wouldn't be classified as skinny—but she was healthy. She wore a dress of lush gold.

She said nothing. Didn't introduce herself, didn't say a single word to the audience.

She just burst into flame.

Her entire body— _covered_ in fire.

And then—just like that—she was extinguished, looking like nothing had happened. "Well, now that _that's_ over with, who'd like to be my volunteer? I promise you'll be perfectly safe. Inferna never tells a lie." She smiled, a perfect, straight, white one that was almost ethereal. She looked over the audience as a few people's hands shot up and a few others were tentatively raised. Her orangey eyes flicked over the assembled crowd.

Clint quickly realized that Pietro's hand was up. As was Cooper's. Clint pushed Cooper's down.

The girl descended from the stage, walking around the crowd, twisting fire around her fingers and dancing it between her hands. She smiled as she made her way closer to the Avengers and the children.

The flames around her hands vanished as she offered her left one to Pietro. He took it enthusiastically, bounding to his feet.

He quickly became conscious of how hot her skin was. The ends of her long hair seemed to dance with fire as she led him up to the stage. "Stand here," she instructed quietly, giving him a wink. She pointed at the ground around him. A line of clear liquid was drawn in a circle all around him. "I promise you'll be alright. This is just something that will make it look like you're not okay." Another wink and she took a few steps away. "What's your name?" she asked.

"Pietro Maximoff!"

"That's a mouthful," she remarked. The audience chuckled. "But, okay. Ladies and gentleman, please welcome to the stage our brave volunteer Pietro!" Everyone clapped and cheered. She leaned in close as flames danced around her wrist. "Don't scream. Whatever you do."

He nodded.

A ball of fire sizzled into being. She stepped away and chucked it at the ground.

With a roar a wall of flames flew from the line of liquid—lighter fluid.

The blaze rose higher and higher as her hands lifted, coaxing it up, up, up. It surrounded Pietro on all sides, but was remarkably cool.

There was an almost demonic grin on Inferna's face as she urged the fire on.

It closed around his head, making a cone of fire around him. She grinned while the audience gasped loudly.

With a snap of her fingers, the fire vanished.

Pietro gasped and sighed with relief. He shook her hand and let her kiss him on the cheek before jogging at a weirdly normal pace back to his seat. "Give it up for Pietro everybody!" There was applause as Wanda gave her brother a look that said she knew exactly what he was thinking—that the fire-cone had been terrifying but that he thought Inferna had a strange beauty about her.

* * *

After the burning show, Pietro zipped around back to find the girl. He found her collapsed on a chair, looking exhausted. There minimal makeup she'd been wearing had been smeared off from sweat. "Why do you work at a carnival?" he asked. "Why not become an Avenger?"

Her eyes fluttered open. "This place is the only place I've found where I'm not considered a freak for what I can do," she replied, voice strained and tired. "Even the Avengers are seen as freaks."

Pietro, in a flash, was next to her. "Are you alright?"

Inferna shrugged nonchalantly, looking like she was far beyond her limits. "I push myself a little harder with every show. Today's was that cone. I've never done it before. I didn't understand the toll it would take. I'll be fine in the next few hours. It's just a side-effect of what I can do." A weak spark flashed in the palm of her hand. Pietro took her wrist to look at it.

"Listen to me, I'm like you. But I'm an Avenger—we're not freaks."

Her eyes eased open and she looked straight at him. "Prove it."

He zipped around the small backstage room, over and over again, leaving a silver-blue-white streak behind him. The girl sat up in her chair and watched him. Her eyes were fast enough to keep track of his relative position and she just stared. When he stopped, he said nothing and just looked at her as he breathed heavily. "Please?" he pleaded. "Come with me. Become an Avenger. We could use skills like yours." She just kept staring. "Is that a yes?"

She licked her lips and he had a sudden urge to kiss them. He was way too impulsive for his own good.

Because he did it.

He rushed forward and kissed her. It was intense, hot, passionate. She was kissing him back and she had no idea why. She just had a lot of burning inside her and the kissing was cooling it off—or something. It wasn't something she'd ever done before. Or even thought to try.

"It's a yes. For now. The second I don't like this or feel like a freak again is the second I clear out."

"Understood," Pietro replied cheekily, grinning.

She kissed him again. "I like how this feels. I've never felt it before."

"I do too, beautiful."

* * *

 **End Note: Huge thanks to callieandjack for being my first reviewer!**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	21. Through the Fire and Flames (P)

**Author's Note: This one gets quite... heated. And the pun is totally intended. This is actually the first Pietro one-shot I ever wrote! Hope you like it! (Title based on song of the same name by DragonForce. I highly recommend everyone listens to it** ** _at least_** **once in their life because it's awesome.)**

 **21) Through the Fire and Flames**

* * *

I was in my room at the Avengers facility, blasting "Defying Gravity" through my speakers and singing along at the top of my lungs, when I was rudely interrupted by the Silver Speedster. I call him that because in the comics, the Flash is often called the Scarlet Speedster and Maximoff is a huge nerd but calling him that irritates him. I'm a nerd too, but he doesn't know it (how he doesn't confuses me since I have Doctor Who posters all over my room and make no secret of it), so I poke fun at him to get a reaction. I'm that kind of teenage girl.

But it's just because he makes fun of my powers. I'm a powerful pyrokinetic but he's too fast for me to catch him. He's made it his personal mission to mess with me.

Just like this rude interruption.

He spun into my room and sat nonchalantly on my fire-retardant chair, his ankle resting on his opposite knee. "Good morning, princessa," he greeted. I whirled to see him, my back muscles bristling in irritation. I narrowed my orangey-brown eyes in warning, but didn't deign him with a response.

When I turned to pause my iPod, I felt a breeze brush the loose hairs that had escaped from my braid on the back of my neck. I turned back to find his sternum literally two inches from the tip of my nose. "Oh. Hello," I said sarcastically. I moved to edge around him, but he kept blocking my path. "Silver, beat it." My threat fell on deaf ears, but I knew he wasn't stupid—usually.

My hands lit on fire.

He took half a step back as my room suddenly heated up considerably.

But then the alarm started blaring—and it was the fire alarm. It was also the _something's gone wrong and everyone needs to get out of the facility immediately_ alarm.

Ignoring my shriek of protest, Pietro scooped me up into his arms and blasted out of the building.

Once we were outside, me still in his arms, I saw there was smoke rising from the other side of the building. "Pietro, take me over there now. If there's a fire and someone's trapped inside I have to go get them," I ordered him. He stared at me blankly. I snapped my fingers between his eyes. "Now, roadrunner!"

He finally processed what I was saying and zipped to the other side in less than a second.

"Help! Help!" a wheezy voice called as we stared at the wall of flames in front of us.

We both recognized it.

Wanda.

The older Maximoff dropped me to the ground.

"Wanda!" he shouted. He jumped through the fire to go find her, leaving me on the ground. I rolled my eyes, jumped to my feet, and walked through the wall.

The younger Maximoff twin was trapped under a burning beam from the ceiling, her powers barely keeping the fire at bay. Pietro had grabbed it and let it go, palms burnt. I pushed him out of the way and laid my hands on it. I was immune to burns so I threw it off her. Pietro snatched her up into his arms and ran to the wall of flames—it had grown. It was impenetrable and Wanda didn't have the strength to suppress it. She was too sick from inhaling smoke.

I got there as quick as I could. "Can you… put it out?" Pietro asked me desperately.

Pursing my lips, I looked at the flat expanse of inferno. "I've never put a fire out before," I admitted. "I'm more of a fire-starter. But… I'll try." I put my hands out in front of me, palms immersed in the licking flames. I pushed to either side, pushing the fire out of the way, like one would part a curtain. "Go!" I shouted.

Not needing to be told twice, Pietro was out.

I closed the gap, leaving me inside the building. I ran around as fast as I could, making sure everyone else was out.

Once I was done, I leapt through that barricade and collapsed on the grass, coughing some smoke out of my lungs until I was fine. Sure I was immune to fire but I could only handle so much smoke. My own fire never actually made any.

Pietro picked me up from the grass and took me several yards away. I closed my eyes and did my best to smother the flames devouring the new Avengers facility. It took more of my concentration and strength than I thought. Fire I didn't make myself was a lot harder to control—that was one of the few downsides of my powers. So once it was out, I passed out on the grass, with the last word I heard being Pietro and Wanda both shouting my name.

I don't know how long I was out, but when I woke up I was in a lab, Pietro sitting in a chair nearby. "Morning princessa," he greeted.

"Is it?" I groaned. "I hate mornings."

Pietro chuckled and stroked the side of my face with the back of his fingers once. My eyes rolled into the back of my head in rapture. "Then sleep. I'll wake you when the sun goes down," he murmured. My eyebrows scrunched. He had dark crescents of violet under his electric blue eyes. I lifted one heavy hand and touched his face, my thumb resting on the bags.

"How long have you been awake?" I asked. "How long have you been here?"

"Forty-eight hours."

"What? Why?"

"You almost killed yourself putting the fire out—according to Stark and the strange machines here." He gestured vaguely to medical equipment in the lab. "You saved the building—as well as my and Wanda's lives. I ran into that blaze like an idiot and we both would have been killed without you."

I had a pounding headache and the blinding LED lights weren't helping. "You're being a drama queen," I remarked. "Once the sun goes down, go to bed yourself."

"I'm not leaving you here until you're better."

"Stop being dramatic. Honestly, I'm fine, but you need some sleep." I closed my eyes, knowing what I was about to do was going to make my headache worse and make me dizzy, but I did it anyway—I sat up and swung my legs off the side of the lab table.

Almost instantly Pietro was in front of me, pushing me back down. "You just turned pale."

"Yup. That's because all the blood rushed out of my head. I'm fine." My knuckles were white on the table as the dizziness subsided. "There we go. All better." Even the headache was going away.

Then I realized that Pietro was standing in between my legs—and I felt my face flush. He didn't seem to notice. He was staring directly at my eyes. There was a puppy dog look on his face. "You saved my life, love. That's not something I'm ever going to forget," he commented. His hands rested on my knees—which, to be honest, are a bit ticklish—and I twitched. My ears grew warm and I felt like my face was on fire. Given my powers, that wouldn't have shocked me in the _least_.

"Don't be melodramatic, nerd," I scolded.

"I don't know what you mean," he teased.

He leaned forward and kissed me, closing his eyes. His hands slid up my legs and around my waist, holding me to him with his warm hands on my back. He was probably the only one in the world besides Captain Rogers who produced as much body heat as I did.

I locked my ankles around his hips and wrapped my arms around the back of his neck, kissing him back.

For the first time since I was ten years old, the burning in my chest wasn't my fire.

It was passion.

And it was a much hotter, more intense feeling.

I liked it.

The kissing turned into heavy making out. He tasted like mint and his firm muscles against my blazing body were strong and solid. I leaned against him, absorbing as much as I absolutely could. For a moment I wished I had his powers—slow the world down so it lasted longer, live faster. But I was just me, I lived at normal speed. As it was, I was savoring the moment.

The lab table I was still sitting on was suddenly in a corner, the medical equipment all dragged along by the wires connecting them to me. For a very brief moment I wondered how we got there, then I remembered his powers and felt like an idiot.

There was a beeping in my ears that I figured out was the EKG monitoring my heart rate. It was speeding up. I felt Pietro smile against my lips before resuming.

We leaned deeper into each other and I realized that Pietro's shirt had mysteriously gone missing as my hands ran over smooth bare skin and my fingertips brushed scar tissue. I pulled my own proper shirt off and threw it to the side as the room seemed to heat up several hundred degrees—which I swear is not my fault since nothing was actually on fire—leaving me in a camisole with a low back. His fingers were right on my skin, under my long hair. I could feel calluses on his palms—and vibrating. He was getting excited. I was too because I could feel my core heat up like a furnace. As my mouth moved incessantly, I had to half-concentrate on not burning the building I had just saved from a fire.

The door creaked open and Tony walked in. When he noticed us he cleared his throat.

We broke apart. Pietro was instantly on the other side of the room and my hair lit on fire in embarrassment.

The genius looked at us for a moment and then made his exit.

Pietro looked across the lab at me, his silver-white hair messy—at some point I must have run my hands through it or something. He gave me a cheeky wink. "How do you like mornings now, princessa?" he teased.

I laughed. "Well, this one wasn't so bad."

* * *

 **End Note: How 'bout that? ;-)**

 **Thanks for reading! Tell me what you thought!**

 **~Cass**


	22. PJs and Chick Flicks (P)

**Author's Note: This one was kinda fun to write. Can't really think of much else to say.**

 **22) Pajamas and Chick Flicks**

* * *

I woke up with a loud gasp, sitting ramrod straight in bed. My hair was a wild mess around my head, my eyes had an almost feral glint in them, and sweat made my fleecy pajamas cling to my skin uncomfortably. The nightmare had jerked me out of my sleep. I ran my brush through my hair in an attempt to tame it. It took a moment, and then I got out of bed, took off my pajama shirt leaving me in my tank top, grabbed my sketchbook and phone, and slipped out of my room as silently as I could.

I went down the hall to the living room in the new Avengers facility, sat down on the cushy sofa, and turned the TV on. I scrolled through several lists of Netflix movies and finally found a super sappy romance that I'd seen before and hadn't hated (a rarity, trust me) and settled on that.

I sure as heck wasn't going back to sleep. If I did I'd be back in that horrible cell in the freezing winter—surrounded by a cold so deep it felt like my bones were made out of icicles. Yeah. No thanks!

The opening credits had just started up when I heard a floorboard try to creak and a weight hit the sofa next to me. I turned to see a shirtless, shaking-like-a-leaf Pietro Maximoff staring at his knees like he hadn't even noticed me. His hair was even more unruly than mine and his face was covered in sweat. I put my hand on his face, feeling his stubble under my fingers. His electric blue eyes snapped to me as if he'd just realized I was there. "Hey," I greeted, voice hoarse from lack of use and exhaustion. "Bad dream?" He nodded fervently, seemingly catatonic from fear.

I pulled him close to me, resting his head on my chest.

"Me too, speedy. Me too," I murmured.

One of his arms circled my waist and I felt a hot tear soak into the fabric of my camisole. "It was all pain," he whispered. "Pain and needles and fear. I was back in Sokovia, and it seemed more like a memory than a nightmare." I held him tighter. "And then I was burning." He took his head away from me and looked me in the eye. "It scared me." I leaned forward and rested my bare forehead against his wavy, silver-white bangs.

"I'm here, Pietro. I'm here," I reassured him. To be honest, I hardly ever called him his first name to his face because I couldn't pronounce it very well without my tongue feeling all wrong. I felt his hot breath on my neck—he was panting. "I dreamt I was in my cell in Sokovia, during the winter long before I had my powers. It was cold—so cold my bones felt it."

He wrapped his warm—bare—arms around me, taking his turn to hold me to his chest. It was a much more natural position given I was ten inches shorter than his 5'11". "I'm sorry," he murmured.

I shrugged and leaned so that we were both relaxed comfortably against the back of the sofa. "It's okay. Let's calm you down by watching a movie with me," I suggested, turning my attention back to the sap-fest on the screen. My sketchbook—full of terrible drawings given I didn't know how to draw and just used it as a way to calm down—was lying abandoned next to me. Pietro rested his head on top of mine and just turned to the movie. It was two in the morning and we'd both been getting consistently bad sleep—so needless to say this wasn't the first time we'd watched a chick-flick in the dead of night together. But honestly, it helped us. The solidarity of his heat and strength helped me come back to the real world, and my small, cooler skin helped him relax. We'd just keep our arms around each other to show we were there.

Sometimes, if I was really lucky, I'd fall asleep—but usually he did. I was kinda jealous.

Other times I wondered why Wanda never joined us. Did she not have the nightmares we did? She went through the same thing! Well… except the near-death experiences, but we never had bad dreams about those because we were both subconsciously trying to forget they ever happened.

Tonight was one of the nights that I found enough piled-up, stored-away exhaustion in me to drive me deep into sleep.

The only times I didn't have nightmares was when Pietro was there.

Later, he told me that the same was true for when I was with him.

I promise we were just friends. Mostly—that one time when he'd had a swig of Thor's ale because it was the only thing that could get him drunk for a few minutes and he'd kissed me under the mistletoe at Tony's party didn't count because he didn't remember it and there was no way I was going to tell him. That was _my_ memory—and I didn't even admit to myself that it was one of my favorite memories of him since we met because I had a bit of a crush.

Okay. Maybe a lot of a crush—but DON'T TELL HIM!

When I woke up to the blood red horizon of the rising sun peeking through the windows and the TV long-since turned itself off, I grinned. Pietro was asleep next to me. I had half a mind to tickle his nose with a feather or something to wake him up and see what he'd do, but I figured I'd be nice. If I woke naturally, I'd let him do the same.

I eased my sketchbook into my lap and began to do my best to copy his face—very badly.

Eventually I gave up and took a picture on my phone.

The light shutter noise that it made caused him to shuffle in his sleep, arms holding my waist tighter. He mumbled my name and went right back into sleep.

I started making a typography collage of the other Avengers instead of my drawing.

It was a rare occasion to see him both still and peaceful. His powers made him _beyond_ hyper with a very poor attention span and he always had this slightly-distressed look on his face even if he was watching me do something he'd seen me do eight hundred times.

He sighed against my hair, fluttering the looser strands, and sat up. "Did I sleep?" he asked.

"Yeah," I answered.

"I can't remember sleeping that peacefully," he commented.

"Maybe we should start our nights like this, with each other. Maybe we'll sleep through the night for once."

He chuckled and let me go. "Maybe we should. Your room or mine for this next night?"

There was a cheeky, almost suggestive hint to his tone I elected to ignore. "How about yours? Mine's a little small for two people since… you know… I'm not very big." I pursed my lips in a sarcastic way, making him chuckle. He smiled—probably agreeing with me—and rested his head on top of mine again. I knew he was smelling my hair—he'd done it before and it didn't freak me out anymore (trust me, it did the first time). Plus I was too tired to really care anymore.

We were interrupted by his younger sister coming in, wearing her crimson, silk nightgown. "Oh! Good morning!" she greeted. "I didn't realize you two were already up!"

"Uh-huh. Sure," Pietro muttered sarcastically. I snickered.

"We've been up for a while. Bad dreams," I supplied.

"I'm sorry."

Later that night, I found myself in a pair of clean pajamas, knocking on Pietro's door. Before I could get two knocks in he was opening it. He too was in his night clothes—though his just consisted of plaid flannel trousers and no shirt. "This won't make you uncomfortable will it?" he asked, gesturing vaguely to his bare chest and _freaking cut_ abs.

"Uncomfortable? No," I replied, trying for nonchalant, and probably failing.

We both climbed under his thin covers and held each other. My head was on his chest and his arms were wrapped tightly around me.

It was the first time in months we'd both slept through the night.

And it felt glorious.

* * *

 **End Note: Thank you AvengerFrost for the review! I'm glad you enjoyed the Hairspray!**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	23. Bruised Knuckles (P)

**Author's Note: This one I'm particularly fond of. :-) And evidently Tumblr was too because it got lots of notes before I expected to get lots of notes. (For those of you who have _no idea_ what I'm talking about, a "note" is a "like" or "reblog".)**

 **23) Bruised Knuckles**

* * *

 _Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock!_ Rapid-fire knuckles-on-wood echoed through my small NYC apartment, only like two blocks away from Avengers Tower. I rushed to the door, peeked through the peephole, and saw a familiar face—covered in blood. My hands flew to the doorknob, lock, and chain and I opened it. "Pietro! What happened?!" I demanded, looking him over and dragging him into my apartment. I'd met him at a café halfway between the Tower and my apartment and we'd become good friends, meeting for breakfast and texting occasionally. He looked a lot worse than usual—there was split skin near his left ear and both of his hands had extensively bruised knuckles.

He laughed lightly before his bright eyes turned dark and angry—it was a look I'd rarely seen on anyone, let alone Mr. Positive in front of me. "I found Adrian cheating on you," he told me.

Confusion was the first thing to hit my brain. Adrian was my boyfriend of two months, and he'd always been nothing less than a gentleman to me. But I'd known Pietro for a year and he'd never lied to me—even when he told me every gory detail about his supposed "death." And he had no reason to lie. We were just friends—he would never try to drive me and my boyfriend apart. Sure he'd only met him a couple times but he wanted me to be happy. "What are you talking about?" I asked.

"I found him behind our café with that one young waitress… Brandie or something. He was… kissing her. More specifically, her neck," he said. A surge of bewildered anger overtook my mind. "I took it upon myself to get the girl out of my way and promptly beat him up."

"But… he had no reason to…" I muttered, trailing off. The anger was coupled with fear.

"I know. That's why I beat him up. He looks worse than I do. And don't worry. I took him to a hospital after, but I made it clear that you wouldn't want anything to do with a disloyal man."

I'd taken out the First-Aid kit at that point and had started to disinfect the cut on his face but I found I couldn't concentrate. There was too much anger boiling under my skin. I didn't like that particular emotion given I had it a lot and it clouded my mind. I needed to concentrate. I set the gauze down on an end table and closed my eyes, covering my face with my hands. I was muttering incoherently about needing to relax.

Pietro took my wrists and pulled them away from my face to show the tear tracks I was trying to hide from him—he'd always seen me as a strong young woman and I didn't want to spoil that now—more for my pride than anything else. "You were my first real friend here. You didn't care that I was an Avenger, you didn't care that I have superpowers. You cared that I was funny and almost always late to breakfast. The very least I could do for you was keep your heart from breaking too much." I sniffed. "And you have a powerful character, but everyone, even you, will experience heartbreak—I just want you to know I'm here to catch the pieces and help you paste them back together."

"Thank you," I muttered as he gave me a hug. The tears streaming down my face were hot with fury that I was suppressing as well as I could—it wasn't going well. I hugged him back. He didn't seem to mind that my crying was soaking into his loose T-shirt. I'd never hugged him like that before so up until that point, I'd never had reason to know how much muscle he had under those super loose shirts he always wore. And _holy cow_ he was about as firm as a rock. To be honest I was slightly shocked—but mostly impressed.

When I pulled away, I rubbed my tears all over my lower face, letting it absorb into my skin.

"I feel like I could give him a few solid hits myself," I decided. Then I caught sight of his gore-covered face again. "After I clean you up."

* * *

 **End Note: This one's a bit shorter, but it was sure fun to write!**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	24. Natural Beauty (P)

**Author's Note: Twenty-four one-shots and counting. Holy cow. Sometimes I forget how much I write. Wow. This is something to be proud of right?**

 **24) Natural Beauty**

* * *

Pietro bit his lower lip, looking at the newest member of the team. She was attractive, that much was obvious. They were in the middle of a meeting, and he shouldn't have been staring, but he couldn't help himself.

"What if our hair color matched our eye color?" Clint exclaimed randomly in the middle of Steve's speech.

The new girl—whose name still hadn't been said—raised one eyebrow and gave him a look so loaded with sarcasm it could have killed him. Pietro quickly noticed that her eyes and hair were both brown. Hence the look.

"What if our eye color matched our hair color?" Tony added enthusiastically. "I want black eyes!"

"For a genius, you are _remarkably_ stupid," the new girl commented sarcastically.

Pietro snorted into the glass of water he'd been taking a drink from.

"Why thank you, Heather," Tony retorted.

 _Heather,_ Pietro thought. The name fit her. It was the name of a plant. Plants were nature. Nature was beautiful. She had a very naturally beautiful look to her. _Get your head back in the game, Maximoff,_ he scolded himself. He shook his head, shaking silver-white strands of wavy hair out of his way. He noticed _Heather_ looking at him—probably because of the way he reacted to her sarcasm. There was a twinkle of grateful humor in her eyes and a small grin on her face.

She winked at him and turned back to Tony. "You're welcome, old man."

"Can we all get back to the meeting, please?" Steve requested.

"No!" Tony protested. "I need to know why this young little twit thinks I'm stupid!"

Heather raised one eyebrow and turned in her chair. "Look at me, Stark. Look at me very closely. You too, Barton. Why do you think I think you're stupid for thinking that it would be cool to have matching hair and eye color?" She leaned forward so the two men could see her. The curtain of brown hair fell over her shoulders, hanging near her chocolate eyes.

The archer got it first. "Oh. I guess… I didn't think about that," he muttered.

Tony's eyebrows scrunched. "Didn't think about what?"

"Come _on_ , Stark!" Pietro piped in.

"She has brown hair and brown eyes," Clint supplied.

Tony slouched. "Oh."

"Can we get back on subject now?" Steve demanded.

"Yeah. Sure. Whatever you say Captain Spangle-Pants," Tony said.

Heather snorted into the glass of water she'd been taking a drink from. "May I be excused?" she asked, faking innocence. "Restroom." She stood up and left. The moment she was through the door, she vanished—not like Pietro-lost-sight-of her-vanished or she-also-has-super-speed-and-sped-off-vanished though. Like she _freaking-disappeared_ -vanished.

Vanishing himself—without waiting to be excused—he went running after Heather.

And promptly smashed right into her.

As they both tumbled to the ground, she became visible.

Pietro stared at her. She winked flirtatiously at him and disappeared. He heard the sound of her feet retreating. "Wait, printessa!" he protested.

Her hand appeared, but nothing else. "Take my hand," she said.

He did. What could he say, he was impulsive.

As her fingers closed around his and disappeared, so did he. He yelped. His body vanished but at the same time became visible. And he saw Heather. She was grinning wildly. She winked and pulled him along behind her. "Welcome to my world, handsome," she remarked.

He smirked and picked her up. They were still invisible as she wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "Then come into _my_ world, beautiful."

He took off running at top speed.

A small yelp of fear and excitement was snatched from her throat as the wind whistled through her eyelashes. The wild grin on her face turned into a genuine happy smile, mouth slightly open with delight. Pietro chuckled lightly at the look on her face as he slowed down—they were quite suddenly out in the countryside. And visible. Heather jumped out of his arms and threw hers around his waist. "That was totally wicked!" she exclaimed loudly.

"What?"

"Oh right. Your first language isn't English. That was amazing!"

Pietro kissed the top of her head. "I'm glad you think so, printessa."

"Show me that again!" Heather whispered.

"Alright." He swept her up into his hold and blasted out of there. After only moments, city lights were flashing past them. Heather was shrieking in excitement and Pietro was laughing. They disappeared again to keep civilians from seeing them.

When he put her down again they were just outside the meeting-room. "You have two choices, here, now, Heather. Go back in and be bored for the rest of eternity, or we could go find some mayhem to make."

Heather smirked. "Let's go make some mayhem."

They ended up putting a bucket of chocolate sauce above Tony's door and programmed Clint's floor to sing birdsongs instead of a klaxon for his alarm—promptly followed by annoying squawk from a blue jay. Heather was laughing her head off, but trying to be quiet so they wouldn't get caught. They moved quickly and ran out of the building. Heather treated him to lunch and then they went exploring the city for fun.

Near sunset Heather got an angry call from Tony. "You little—!" he started.

"I've heard it all. Don't even bother," she interrupted. Pietro started laughing.

"Where are you?!" he demanded.

"Why would I tell you?"

"Because you're my dear niece and you love me."

"I'm not your niece you only child."

"Meh. Close enough."

She hung up on him and turned to Pietro. "Well, he got our message," she remarked. He grinned and gave her a hug.

"Then we've done something good today, printessa."

* * *

 **End Note: Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	25. Trying Not to Laugh (Midnight Rose) (P)

**Author's Note: I couldn't decide on a title, so this one has two!**

( _Italics are either emphasized or speaking in Sokovian)_

 **25) Trying Not to Laugh (Midnight Rose)**

* * *

Pietro and Wanda Maximoff slipped into the big main gathering/party room while I was using it as a movie theater, watching _Bourne Legacy_. There was this really annoying nagging sensation in the back of my mind that Jeremy Renner looked like someone I'd seen before.

The Wonder Twins were having a conversation. I started grinning without turning away from the TV. "… We really ought to talk to Steve, Bruce, and Tony about _—hey Pietro, there's your girlfriend,"_ Wanda joked. She'd started off with English and then went to Sokovian assuming I couldn't understand her. I snickered but didn't say anything.

 _"Shut up Wanda, she's not my girlfriend. I haven't talked to her since we met,"_ Pietro retorted.

I'd learned Sokovian a long time ago. My father was a SHIELD agent, my grandfather was one of the first SHIELD agents, and my uncle was a SHIELD agent that doted on me. I learned all sorts of languages growing up from them. Sokovian was one of them given my uncle was a deep-cover agent there when I was a kid—had been until SHIELD was compromised. He was back home now and hadn't been in harm's way when Ultron attacked Sokovia.

 _"Well you've told me before that you think she's pretty."_

 _"That doesn't make her my girlfriend!"_

 _"No, but it should. Go make her your girlfriend."_ In the reflection of the TV I saw the brunette nod in my direction.

I bit my lower lip and did my best not to laugh.

Pietro came over to me and sat on the couch next to me. _"Hi. My sister thinks I should ask you out and I think you're beautiful and I really like you,"_ he said, spouting Sokovian. _"So would you like to join me for dinner tonight?"_ I raised my eyebrows and feigned innocence.

"What?" I asked.

"Would you care to join me for dinner tonight?" he repeated, in English.

My mouth dropped open in happy surprise. "I'd love to!" I exclaimed.

He gave me a kiss on both cheeks. "I'll pick you up at five-thirty then!"

"Sounds great!" It was ten in the morning and I was still in my pajamas—I had plenty of time. "What do I need to wear?" I asked.

"Something nice, I think." In a flash he was gone—back to Wanda. _"There. I asked her out."_

 _"Congratulations, brother. I'm proud of you,"_ Wanda remarked. It was so hard for me trying not to laugh. _"You've asked a pretty girl out on a date—for the first time since secondary school!"_ I had to bite my lip so hard to keep from laughing that I made it bleed. Pietro didn't strike me as a shy doesn't-ask-girls-out kind of guy. Quite the contrary actually. He'd flirted with me, Jane, Maria, and Pepper all at some point before—causing the male Avengers to get a little bit overprotective of their women around him for several weeks until he focused solely on me. That bit was obnoxious but I let him do it for the sake of the rest of the team. The one time I was present when Thor almost threw him out the window on the top floor was particularly hilarious.

 _"What am I supposed to do? What makes a good date?"_ Pietro asked Wanda as they started walking out.

 _"Well, maybe you could…"_ Her voice receded as their footsteps faded.

I raised my eyebrows, stopped the movie, powered everything down, and took the elevator to the floor that my room was on. Once inside, I stared at my closet, trying to figure out what I should wear. I had a couple nice things, but most of my _really_ nice stuff was back at home—halfway across the country.

I licked the blood off my lips from where I'd been biting it and selected one of my favorite outfits that was nicer than the sweats and T-shirts I generally tended to wear. It was a black dress with white polka dots made from thread. It looked like a tiny checkerboard and from a distance was eye-burning and gray. Coupled with a pair of black heels with white leather straps and a bright red, gaudy necklace, it was quite nice. I'd worn it to my high school graduation a couple years ago. It would have to do.

Of course, since I was indecisive, it had taken me an hour to pick.

* * *

At five thirty, Pietro came to my door, knocking loudly. "Are you ready, printessa?" he called through the door.

I opened the door, showing off my outfit, makeup, and hair (which Wanda and Natasha had helped me with). "What do you think?" I asked. His jaw dropped and he looked me up and down several times, eyes finally resting on my face.

" _Beautiful,"_ he said emphatically in Sokovian.

I blushed up to the roots of my hair, still pretending I didn't understand him. "That bad huh?" I joked.

"What?! No! I said you look beautiful!" he exclaimed.

I blushed deeper. "Thank you."

"Now, printessa, may I escort you to dinner?" He held out his arm for me. I took his elbow and skipped out of my room, closing the door behind me. Oh man. This was going to be great.

He took me to the main gathering room—where Ultron first attacked and I'd been watching a movie earlier. It had been completely redecorated to look like an empty restaurant. There was a table set for two with lit, scented candles on it. I could smell the perfume from the doorway to the elevator. "How did you know what my favorite candles were?" I asked carefully.

"My sister told me," he replied nonchalantly. "Midnight Rose, if I remember correctly."

I grinned. "You do."

The moment we sat down, Tony swept over to us dramatically in a suit and bowtie. "May I get the lovely couple a drink and the menu?" he asked in a British accent. Tears swarmed to my eyes from trying not to laugh.

"You may," Pietro told him while the billionaire winked mischievously at me.

Turns out the entire team was our wait-staff for the evening. Clint brought out the drinks, Natasha and Wanda the appetizers, Thor and Steve the entrees, and Bruce the dessert. I hadn't laughed so hard in ages. I had a fantastic time and a great date.

Finally, as we were finishing our desserts, I leaned forward. "I have a confession to make, Pietro," I told him.

His eyes widened. "What? You're married?"

I laughed heartily. "No. Don't jump to conclusions so quickly." I put my tongue between my teeth in a cheeky grin and felt my throat flex, getting ready to speak. " _I actually know Sokovian,_ " I informed him—in Sokovian.

"So you knew everything I was saying?!" he demanded.

"Yeah."

"Oh Midnight Rose, you are full of surprises."

* * *

 **End Note: _English Words_ _Stealing from French 101_ states that "blonde" is feminine and "blond" is masculine. The same goes for "brunette" and "brunet". I figured I'd get that out of the way now since both will appear in upcoming chapters.**

 **Love y'all! Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	26. Cookies in the Kitchen (P)

**Author's Note: I love this one. I heartily believe that this is the** ** _only_** **way to stop Pietro from running inside.**

 **26) Cookies in the Kitchen**

* * *

I giggled lightly, glancing over my shoulder at where Clint and Natasha were crouched behind me. They gave me a nod, signaling they were ready. Natasha pulled out a very high-quality camera and Clint pulled out his phone. "Do it," the archer whispered.

As silent as a cool breeze in an abandoned forest, I carefully arranged Legos to be spread across the entire width of the hallway. They would be completely unavoidable, too wide to step or leap over, but too close to each other to step in between them, and my best friend on the planet was going to hate me for _ever_. It was going to be brilliant.

Once they were all perfectly in place, I flew over them and landed on the opposite side, taking quiet steps to the kitchen. Clint and Natasha got ready as I opened my mouth.

"Hey Pietro!" I shouted.

"What?" my best friend called back.

"There're cookies in the kitchen!"

"WHAT!? GIMME!" he roared.

I heard the papers in his room fly as he took off—probably near top speed—towards the kitchen and the plate of cookies I'd actually made as his reward for unwittingly participating in the best prank I'd ever pulled.

Almost a half-second later (if I'd run the journey from his room to the kitchen it would have taken at least thirty seconds if you're wondering how fast he was going and how far away his room was) he was yowling in pain on the floor, clutching his feet with both hands and shouting obscenities at me in his native language—which I didn't understand. I knew they were directed at me though because I could hear my name between every couple strings of words that sounded vaguely like Russian.

I started laughing while Clint and Natasha were still filming. They turned the cameras on me for just a second so I could wave and smile.

Pietro stood up, red in the face, carefully avoiding stepping on more Legos by brushing them away with his bare toes. "You utter—you—you—!" he stuttered. He couldn't even come up with an insult for me that properly conveyed his feelings. He muttered a few more choice strings of words in his native language and glared at me while I did my best not to laugh. "I hate you!" he settled on.

I shrugged. "I know you do."

Clint and Natasha turned off their cameras at my small nod to them that Pietro somehow didn't notice.

In less than a second the speedster was in my face, so much taller than me that he had to practically bend over to look into my eyes. "Listen here," he threatened. "You're my best friend and I would die for you, but these stupid jokes need to stop!"

"Or else what?"

"Or else what goes around comes around. That is the phrase in English isn't it?"

I went up on my tiptoes in an attempt to be more intimidating—had we been sitting down or the same height, I would have leaned forward. "Bring it on," I whispered, glaring him right in his electric blue eyes.

* * *

The next several days brought surprisingly little retaliation from Quicksilver—which was bizarre given I thought I'd get chocolate syrup dumped on my head every time I went through a doorway.

I knew what he was doing of course—he was my best friend. He wasn't going to prank me until I figured it was an empty threat, and then he'd unleash a never-ending slew of creative, elaborate, downright torturous pranks that would last until he ran out of ideas. That would be a while though because he was a resourceful little twerp and now he had high-speed internet at his fingertips. So, needless to say, if he actually took up my challenge, I'd be in deep trouble.

Then I walked in on him not wearing a shirt during training.

I mean, I'd seen him shirtless… a lot since we became friends. He never wore his shirt when he was training—not that anyone had ever cared since sometimes Steve and Tony (and Thor when he was around) didn't either—but this one time it was different than others.

He was absolutely drenched in sweat, boxing with a punching bag so fast that his arms were essentially just silver-blue blurs. His back was to me so he didn't even hear me come in the room in my tank top and basketball shorts with a towel over my shoulder and a water bottle in my hand. I just halted in my tracks and stared at him.

Even though Pietro and I had always been greatly platonic, I would be lying if I said he wasn't handsome. Or attractive. Because looking at his powerful back muscles as he worked was… enough to make me want to whistle—loudly.

And what can I say? Pietro was impulsive and it had rubbed off on me.

So I did.

Pietro stopped and turned to look at me. "Hello," he greeted.

"Hey."

"You're staring at me."

"Well _you're_ staring at _me_ ," I retorted.

"What? No I'm not!" he protested. I raised one eyebrow. "Okay. Maybe I am… but… I swear there's a good explanation."

"Yup. I'm sure. And I'm also pretty sure it's the fact that you've never seen me in something so tight before." Usually I wore loose-fitting T-shirts to workouts and training because I didn't like stuff rubbing against my skin while I was continuously moving. At my idea, Pietro blushed up to the roots of his silver-white hair and refused to look me in the eye. He turned back to his punching bag while I laughed and approached him. I gave him a light whack on his rock-hard back to get his attention. "Hey. You're my best friend, but you're still allowed to stare. I'm finally feeling confident enough in my body to wear clothes like this. If it were anyone else staring, I'd probably punch them in the face. But it's you and I know you won't judge me."

He gave me a brief grin and a hug. "You're too nice to me sometimes," he remarked.

"Well… I made you step on a whole bunch of Legos so I'm not sure 'nice' is the right word."

"True." His body vanished for a brief second and suddenly I was soaking wet. I shrieked involuntarily and flailed my arms. _He'd dumped a bucket of ice-water over me!_ Cackling like a maniac, he took off, shouting over his shoulder, "I bet you didn't see that coming!"

"That catch-phrase is really getting old," I muttered to myself, using my wet towel to try and wipe some of the water away.

* * *

 **End Note: I'm still not very creative when it comes to pranks.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	27. Glass Door (P)

**Author's Note: I don't drink coffee so I know absolutely nothing about it. So I didn't put in any specifics. Also: Teehee. That's all.**

 **27) Glass Door**

* * *

I glanced up from the little screen, still wondering why I worked at a coffee shop when I didn't even drink coffee. Didn't like it. "That'll be five-sixty-three, please," I told Random Customer of the Day Number One.

And so the morning went. After the usual before-work rush, the constant tide of people ebbed slightly and I got to go out from behind the counter and clean off tables—a job I never really minded considering most of them were clean and it was good busy work for my hands. I just kept my work up until the manager barked at me to get behind the counter again because Robbie needed to do some yada, yada, yada I wasn't listening to.

So I went back to taking orders.

And then I saw Pietro approaching the shop. He came in every single day, without fail, ordered twenty-five very highly-caffeinated drinks, paid, and walked out. There were lots of people like that though usually they didn't order _twenty-five_ drinks. The only reason I knew his name was every time he came in he introduced himself to me. _Every. Single. Time._

I had no idea why.

But today was slightly different. There was a lull in the line so he was able to see me standing behind the counter as per usual with a bored expression on my face. When he caught sight of me, he waved cheerily, bright blue eyes lighting up and a grin pulling up the corners of his face…

And promptly walked right into the closed glass door.

I couldn't help it—I snorted with laughter, bringing my hands up to cover my mouth and nose so the noise was muffled. The look on his face was so boggled and confused he just looked like a lost puppy dog for a good two seconds before he regained control of his thoughts and opened the door. Biting his lip and blushing with embarrassment, he approached the counter. "Hi, I'm Pietro," he greeted, as usual, this time with a sheepish tone. "And I'll take…" He rattled off the order of twenty-five usual drinks (I had no clue how he carried them all—honestly!) with a slight bow to his usual cocky head.

"Who drinks all these?" I asked, finally letting my curiosity get the better of me.

"Well, Steve drinks eight, Tony drinks three, Bruce drinks two, Clint, Natasha, and Wanda all have one, and I have the rest. Thor doesn't drink coffee though, he doesn't like it."

I did the math and counting in my head. "You drink nine cups of coffee?" I asked, totally ignoring the fact that he'd just rattled off the names of _Avengers_. He pressed his lips together and nodded. "How can your body handle that?"

"Increased metabolism. It takes more to give me energy."

"Ever tried using natural means?" I suggested as the usual five- to ten-minute wait time for his massive order got under way.

"No."

"Maybe you ought to. High-calorie protein bars maybe."

"Do you… know… what you're talking about?" he asked.

I shrugged. "Nah. I just make up stuff until it kinda makes sense. And I know a little bit about human biology from school," I replied, handing him a carry-out tray of four cups. As I stacked the rest as they came, Pietro balanced them all. "Have a nice day, see you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow." And off he went, precariously holding up a tower of trays full of coffee.

I just prayed he wouldn't hit the glass door again—because then coffee would be everywhere and I'd have to clean it up.

He didn't—thank goodness. He waved with his foot and left the shop.

I smirked and went back to working. Pietro had hit the door. Wow.

Today was going to be a better day.

* * *

 **End Note: Quite a bit shorter than usual, but I had to write this one.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	28. Scarred Angel (P)

**Author's Note: This one I am particularly proud of. Please enjoy it as best you can. There aren't enough wing!fics in the Avengers fandom and I love writing people with wings. (ALSO, WARNING! THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS MENTIONED BULLYING AND POSSIBLY EVEN IMPLIED ABUSE (depending on how much you read between the lines)! IF THAT'S A TOUCHY SUBJECT FOR YOU, MAYBE DON'T READ!)**

 **28) Scarred Angel**

* * *

Pale fingers ran over Pietro's silver wings from behind—gently, lightly. The feathers shivered with pleasure as his electric blue eyes rolled into the back of his head to savor the feeling. Those fingers trailed all the way up the bone, where they softly kneaded his back muscle where the wings met his shoulder blades for a moment. Then the fingertips slid across his bare skin, glided alone his trapezes, up his neck, and rested on his jaw.

He felt feathers rub against his. He peeked a look out of the corner of his eye to see pure gold wings behind his. He could feel her skin pressed against his back. She was warm and her hair, so similar to his in that it faded from dark roots to white ends, fell from her head and tumbled over his shoulders.

He leaned his head back in rapture, his hair resting on the thin, but strong, shoulder of the girl behind him. Wings were the most sensitive part of any human's body. To not flinch away when someone touched them was the greatest form of trust he was capable of. She smiled and pressed her face into his neck, breathing in his musky scent.

"What is bringing this on?" he asked, thick accent rolling off his tongue.

"Tony's out of town," her British tones whispered.

"Oooooh!" he murmured. They never did anything romantic when Tony was in town because he had a bad tendency to interrupt them—and probably on purpose. But they wrapped each other in the other's warmth.

Pietro pulled his wings in against his back so that he could bring her around. He sat her on his lap, facing him, and put his face against her shoulder as she wrapped her legs around his waist—more for comfort than anything else. She was in a tank top so he could feel her soft skin. His hands slid to her back and over her feathers—slightly rougher than she had been with him, but she didn't flinch. Her wings didn't even move. He was under the impression that her wings were far tougher than his—and he knew she would never admit it, but he was right. As his hands ran over the hollow bones that provided structure for the wings and the feathers that made the pinions, he could feel the scars she had on them. He wasn't sure how wings could be scarred, but hers were.

She had never told him the story, but he knew her life before the Avengers rescued her was a hard one—the battle wounds weren't limited to her gold limbs. They were across the blank canvas of her back, in a few odd places on her arms, chest, and legs, and one behind her left ear. He knew, because of each and every mark, that she had a story to tell—she just never told. And he'd never asked.

If she was ever ready, she'd tell him.

For the moment, he concentrated on her. He kissed the curve of her shoulder, her jawbone where it bent just below her ear, her cheekbone just in front of her ear, the tip of her nose, and finally made his way to her lips. He felt her warmth seep into him. He could feel where her wings were relaxed against his criss-crossed legs. It was only in these rare moments of closeness that he felt or saw her powerful golden extremities in any sort of state of relaxation. Otherwise they were rigid and guarded. But for the moment, they shivered against his strong legs, starting from where they met her back and travelling all the way down to the tips.

His own wings slid slowly from where they were held taut against his back over the floor. But as her fingers wound through his hair, tangling in his wavy strands, they snapped upwards, wrapped around both of their bodies, and came to rest where the joint was on her shoulders.

He felt her smile against his lips for a moment before tilting her head a bit in the other direction and opening her mouth a bit.

Smiles were rare on her—no matter how many times Pietro told her that her smiles were beautiful. Usually she was so closed off the only way to read her emotions were in her wings. They'd flare if she was annoyed or they'd bristle if she felt threatened. Even then the signals were so subtle it was difficult to see they even happened. But every time she was around Pietro, the taut feathers would relax, even if the bones holding them to her back didn't.

So many times she'd been tempted to tell him everything. About how she'd been found on the doorstep of an orphanage in the middle of a storm in a white blanket, with goofy gold feathers poking out of her back—about how the married couple who ran the orphanage treated her as the only girl there with wings—about every time she went to school and was mocked for being different, despite the fact that she wasn't the only one there with the feathered extra limbs—about each and every scar dealt to her by bullies and trainers and other orphans.

But she'd never said anything to him. She'd told herself once that she should be _proud_ of the cost of those scars—that they meant she'd been stronger than who/what had tried to hurt her—that she'd _won_. But she could never actually feel proud. So she never told him anything.

She loved and trusted Pietro more than she'd loved and trusted anyone else in her entire, albeit somewhat short, life. Yet she couldn't bring herself to lay her soul out in front of him, completely bare for him to see and criticize. She knew he wouldn't be critical, since he hadn't exactly had an easy life either, but she didn't want to see the look in his eyes when she told him about the pain.

Because it would make _him_ hurt. And she didn't want to see him hurt.

Because she loved him.

Pietro loved her too, he just sometimes wished she trusted him more. She'd never told him much about herself but he'd fallen for her anyway—much to Wanda's slight irritation given she was the only one his sister couldn't read. She was always gentle with him—only using her fingertips to touch his feathers so she didn't hurt him—and was the only one who ever was. She let him be vulnerable around her, and didn't ever say anything if he needed to break down and cry. She'd just stroke his hair until he was finished or run her fingers over his wing-bones in an attempt to be soothing.

He kissed her passionately, both of them with eyes closed. His hands had moved from her scarred wings to being hopelessly tangled in her long thick hair. She was holding his tightly, making sure he wasn't going anywhere.

And he wasn't. They were sitting on the floor of his living room and there was no way they were going to be leaving.

Which of course meant at that moment, Captain Steve Rogers opened the door, his pure white wings—dyed with red and blue by Tony while he was sleeping as a prank—taking up almost the entire width of the opening. For a moment, he just stared at them. They were both in shorts, with Pietro shirtless and her in a form-fitting tank top, practically sucking each other's faces off. After making a very leaderly decision, he muttered, "Okay, I'll come back later," turned around, and left.

Pietro hissed for a moment. "He didn't shut the door," he complained.

She laughed.

* * *

 **End Note: I still love this one dearly. It's almost dark, and probably one of the most romantic things I've ever written.**

 **Thank you for reading! I love you guys!**

 **~Cass**


	29. I've Lost My Powers! (P)

**Author's Note: This one made me giggle to write. It's a bit shorter. But I'm so excited for next chapter - it's quite a bit longer!**

 **29) "I've Lost My Powers!"**

* * *

Pietro wiped the fog off the mirror with his towel after his shower, already in jeans but he hadn't put his shirt on yet.

His silver-white hair was gone. The scraggly, wet locks hanging from his head were dark brown.

A loud shout of shock was ripped from his throat.

From the room next door, Wanda looked up from her book curiously. The Vision shrugged across from her on the sofa. "Pietro?" she called through the wall. "Are you alright?" There was a loud _bang_ of his door slamming open. By the time Wanda got to the door and looked out, the blue blur of her brother's powers was fading.

 _"Help, help, help, help, help!"_ he shouted. " _I've lost my powers! I've lost my powers! I've lost my powers!"_

The Vision was smiling behind Wanda, holding his book carefully in one hand and Wanda's shoulder in the other. "Are you going to tell him?" he asked carefully. The younger Maximoff twin smirked widely, considering her brother carefully as he blasted by again, sending her hair fluttering.

"No. Not yet," she decided.

It was lucky for Pietro that the hallways were abandoned—he was running wildly and smashing into walls, leaving a few not-insignificant dents. Panic was surging through his system as he shouted again and again for help because his powers were gone. But it seemed like everyone else in the New Avengers Facility was out on holiday—all at the same time—because there was literally no one around who he could ask for help with getting his powers back.

He skidded to a stop as a girl with black hair and vibrant green eyes stepped out into the middle of the hallway somewhere near the lounge area. Her skin was ghostly pale with a tiny smattering of grayish freckles on her nose. He grabbed her shoulders. "Sabrina, help me," he pleaded. "I got out of the shower and my hair was brown! My powers are gone!" He looked like he was about ready to have a mental breakdown.

Sabrina chuckled, lifted her hands up to his shoulders, and stared him right in the eye. "You are such a lovable dummy," she remarked.

"What? Why?" Pietro demanded.

"How did you not notice that you've been running over six-hundred miles per hour?" she asked, grinning wildly.

From down the hallway, Wanda cursed in Sokovian. "Sabrina! I wasn't going to tell him!" the older woman protested, groaning in complaint. Sabrina looked over Pietro's shoulder and gave her friend an apologetic smile.

"Sorry. It just hurt my heart to see him looking so pitiful and scared," she told the Scarlet Witch. She gave her speedster a kiss on his jaw—since he was a lot taller than her and it was the highest place she could reach—and edged past him to join up with Wanda. Pietro looked at his dark brown hair in the reflection of the window. He'd been moving so fast that it had blown dry.

He turned and gave Sabrina a curious look. "But… how?" he stuttered.

"Ask Tony if he knows anything about removing hair dye," she replied, putting her hand in the damp roots of his hair. When she pulled her fingers out, they were covered in what appeared to be dirty water. "And while you're at it, ask him if he was the one who put it in your shampoo." She gave him a wink and strolled back into the game room where she'd been playing ping-pong against herself—since she was a speedster as well.

Pietro looked at where she cleaned the brownish water off her hands and went back to playing.

Then he looked at his sister and her sort-of boyfriend. Wanda was smiling with humor twinkling in her brown eyes, and even the Vision was looking amused—an emotion Pietro had never really seen on the android before despite his best efforts to see if he, in fact, _had_ a sense of humor.

"I'd suggest you do as Sabrina says," Wanda commented. "Tony would so _love_ to see you."

Pietro felt a sudden anger in his chest well up for that _stupid Stark—again!_ So, he did as he was told.

For once.

* * *

 **End Note: This was hilarious.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	30. Age of Future Past (P)

**Author's Note: Cross-Over with X-Men! MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! I loved this one so much!**

 **30) Age of Future Past**

* * *

Pietro scooped me up into his arms before I even realized what was happening.

Wait.

Correction.

Pietro threw me over his shoulder _like a sack of potatoes_ before I even realized what was happening.

There. That's better.

I was looking at the small of his back. One of his arms was wrapped around my legs.

"What are you doing?" I demanded.

"You _really_ have to see what I just found!" he exclaimed.

The wind from his super-speed whipped through my hair. "You're brushing my hair out later!" I shouted.

"Deal!" my best friend called over the wind. I pressed my lips together for another few minutes.

He slammed to a halt. We were somewhere outside the city. "Where are we?" I asked.

"The one state at the top. Maid or something."

"Maine," I corrected.

Okay. So we were _way far_ outside the city.

"That's the one."

"What did you want to show me?"

Pietro dropped me off his strong shoulder and let me fall, ungraceful and not dignified, to the ground. When I stood up to protest indignantly, he pointed ahead. I raised my eyebrows and turned to look—albeit somewhat warily as I wasn't entirely unconvinced this wasn't just some elaborate prank he'd set up to mess with me. It wouldn't be the first time.

But no. It wasn't.

At least, I didn't think it was.

There was a very young man lying face-down on the ground. He was wearing a black leather jacket, black jeans, running shoes, pilot's goggles, and headphones. But the weirdest thing about him…

His hair was silver.

I stared at him blankly. "Think you can heal him?" Pietro asked.

"So that's why you brought me all the way to freaking Maine," I muttered. Very tentatively I approached the inert figure of the young man. He didn't move. If he was unconscious, that wouldn't surprise me. I glanced over my shoulder at Quicksilver and shrugged. After a moment of careful consideration, I knelt next to the young man and put two fingers to his neck, just below his jaw bone, feeling for a pulse.

His skin was warm and there was a faint beat against my fingers.

"Well, he's alive," I remarked. I put my hands on his arm and rolled him over.

His eyes were closed and his face was covered in dirt—and blood. There was a large gash on his cheekbone that had very nearly finished scabbing.

I set my jaw and placed my hands on the young man's chest. Green light pulsed down my arms and into the unconscious form with the same rhythm as my heartbeat. I stared intently at his face while I channeled my energy into healing him.

He wasn't unattractive. Probably my age—maybe even a bit younger. For a moment I peeled one eye open to make sure it wasn't bloodshot or something. His eyes were brown, but otherwise they were fine. So I went back to concentrating on healing him. Under my fingers I felt his heart beat faster and stronger. His eyelids started to flutter.

I gave one last shove of green energy into his torso and stepped back.

With a gasp his eyes flew open and he sat up.

"Well, Juvie, you've done it again," Pietro remarked from behind me. My superhero "codename" is Rejuvenation, but Pietro couldn't pronounce it in English so he just called me Juvie— _all the time._

The young man stared right into my eyes. "What happened? Where am I? Better question, _when_ am I?" he demanded.

I scratched an itch under my nose. "I don't know what happened—my best friend found you unconscious. I healed you. My name is… Juvie. You're in the countryside in Maine and it's… twenty-fifteen," I informed him, speaking carefully. The boy's dark eyes flicked between me and Pietro—who was standing several feet behind me. "Who are you? What's your name?" He fixed his gaze on me and I noticed he was shaking—like he was ADHD or something.

"Peter. Peter Maximoff."

My eyes widened slightly and I turned to look at Pietro. Mutely, I pointed to him and then back to Peter. _Maximoff,_ I mouthed at my best friend. He shrugged. I turned to look at the younger man again. "Okay. _Peter. Maximoff_ ," I remarked, getting my head used to what the heck was happening. Today felt like one of those days where I realized too late that I shouldn't have gotten out of bed.

"And who are you?" the silver-haired kid asked the white-haired man.

"Pietro," he replied tautly, pointedly keeping his surname to himself and his accent quiet. I didn't have to be telepathic to know that we were both thinking the same thing— _Maximoff_ wasn't exactly a common name in America and their first names were eerily similar too. There was something fishy going on and neither of us knew what it was. Suffice to say I was a bit freaked—I could only imagine how Pietro was feeling.

"Weird name," the kid muttered sarcastically.

"Do you think you can walk?" I asked carefully.

Peter smiled at me. "Darlin', I can do a whole lot better than _that_ ," he flirted.

I glanced over his head for a moment, irritated. But also a bit frightened. That was what Pietro said to me after I'd brought him back from the dead. Though he'd used a Sokovian or Romanian term of endearment I hadn't understood. _Frumoasa_ or something.

When I looked back down at him, he was still grinning smugly. "Wipe that look off your face or I'll slap it off," I snapped, shoving myself back to my feet.

He popped up to his. "Don't be like that, darlin'," he complained.

"Okay. First, I can tell you're from the East Coast so stop using 'Darlin'' like you're from the West. _I'm_ from the West and can tell the difference. Second: buzz off," I sassed. He blinked in surprise, like he wasn't expecting someone to match his wit. He recovered quite quickly and the smug look returned.

"I see. You're taken but you still think I'm cute," he remarked.

I decked him.

The hit was hard enough that it knocked him to the ground.

Pietro rushed so he was standing in front of me, his blue blur fading just before Peter looked at us. I edged around my best friend. "I got this," I whispered to him. I gave Peter a grin—my sassiest one. "I'm not, in fact, taken. I've just been through too much to put up with crap from youngster punks like you." The grin grew wider. "So, if you want to keep flirting with me, by all means, go ahead. You'll just have a broken nose by the end of the day."

In a split second Peter was inches from my face. "Only if you can catch me, beautiful," he remarked, winking.

I felt Pietro tense behind me. But I put my hand out to stop him from hitting the kid.

"Is that so?" I asked carefully.

Peter grinned and grabbed the back of my neck. For a crazy moment I thought he was going to kiss me—but I was super glad he didn't.

"What are you doing?" I demanded.

"Holding your neck so you don't get whiplash. Wanna see?" he teased, tongue between his teeth in a cheeky grin. Before I could even reply…

He took off, top speed, going as fast as Pietro could. Except, instead of me in his arms, I was just sort of right alongside him, not sure what my legs were doing. They weren't running.

We only stopped when Pietro caught up and ripped me away from him—accidentally flinging me to the ground. He threw Peter to the ground, shouted, "Don't you dare treat her like that!", picked me up, and set me on my feet. I knelt next to the other speedster and rested my hand on his chest to keep him where he was. A pulse of purple light travelled down my arm and I blew violet mist at the younger man. He inhaled it—involuntarily—and passed out.

"We should… take him back to the Facility…" I muttered.

"And do what?"

"Contain him. Ask him questions. He asked _when_ he was—like he travelled through time or something."

"That doesn't mean we should take him back with us."

"Yes it does. We'll put him in one of the specialized cells that can keep every single Avenger in and then we'll see what we're dealing with here," I told him. Pietro didn't seem convinced. I rolled my eyes. "Please? This could be some weird alternate-universe breakthrough! This kid is so similar to you that it's honestly freaking me out, and you're not the least bit curious about what information Wanda could get from him? Did you not see how fast he ran? Did you not notice? Did you not hear what he said when I asked if he thought he could walk? Did you not hear that? _He has the same freakin' last name as you!_ "

Finally my best friend sighed. "Fine."

"Take him back first, have him secured, then come back for me. I'll be right here."

He gave me a smirk. "Don't tell me what to do, draga," he teased, before putting the sleeping speedster over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and bolting off with a bluish blur trailing behind him.

I sat down on the grass in the strange little Maine field and waited. It would take a few minutes for my best friend to get back to New York, secure Peter, and then come back to me. Probably not more than fifteen given the securing might take a little while. I stuck one foot out and crossed the other one under it. With any luck he wouldn't notice me and trip over my leg.

Because _frick yeah_ I was _that_ best friend!

I whistled a couple Disney songs to myself while I waited, going through the entire _Hercules_ soundtrack in my head and around half of the ones from _Tarzan_ that I could remember before Pietro came blasting back around thirteen or so minutes later.

Fortunately for him, he skidded to a stop about three inches from where my leg was partially-hidden in the grass. "It's done. The kid is secure and Wanda is with him. But he won't wake up until—"

"—I get back and wake him. I know," I finished.

Pietro held his arms out for me. "Draga?"

I grinned, wrapped one arm around his shoulders, and jumped into his hold. "What does 'draga' even mean?" I asked.

"Well, in the spirit of our new friend, I thought I'd call you 'darlin''," he joked. "But, in Romanian." I still had no idea why he used Romanian endearments if he spoke Sokovian. Maybe he just thought they sounded cuter? I don't know, and I never bothered to ask. But I groaned with complaint.

"Why?"

"Because you're so darlin', _darlin'_!" he exclaimed in a very bad imitation of an American accent.

"Don't. Just… just… don't," I muttered.

"C'mon. Let's go see what the weird kid wants." He took off.

"You're going to brush my hair right?" I called over the wind roaring in my ears.

"Of course!"

He put me down just outside the wall of pure energy that made the cell inescapable. Wanda was sitting on a chair near the barrier, looking at him intensely, reading everything she could from Peter's mind. The younger speedster was asleep on the cot in the corner. I blew some purple mist through it from my fingertips. It went up Peter's nose. His eyelids fluttered and his eyes opened again. "I didn't do it!" he exclaimed before realizing I was standing there with my legs apart and my hands on my hips. "Hello, beautiful. Mind telling me where I am?"

"Not if you don't mind telling me where—and _when_ —you're from," I retorted.

He closed his eyes slowly. "I was born in nineteen-fifty-six. I'm here now, fresh from nineteen-seventy-four. I grew up with my mom and my little sister outside Washington DC." I gave Pietro a quick glance at the mention of a little sister.

"How old is she?" Pietro asked.

"When I left her she was six. If it's really two-thousand-fifteen… she'd be… in her forties now."

"So not a twin then."

"No. Why would you think that?" Peter asked.

Wanda, still in the chair, raised one eyebrow.

"No reason in particular. These two are twins and I'm kind of used to making sure everyone else on the planet with siblings doesn't have a twin," I replied, vaguely gesturing to Wanda and Pietro. "Anyway, you're in a remote place in upstate New York that serves as the base for a team of super-powered or otherwise enhanced individuals known as the Avengers. I myself am one of them, along with these two."

Peter looked warily between the three of us. The wall of energy holding him in was invisible, and I kind of hoped he would try to escape, just to see his face when he hit the barrier.

"I've never heard of the Avengers."

"Dude, you're from nineteen-seventy-four!" I snapped. "Of _course_ you haven't heard of the bloody Avengers! They didn't form until twenty-twelve!" I put my face in the palm of my hand and seriously considered turning the barrier off for a moment so I could slap the kid for being such a twit.

"Juvie," Pietro warned, sensing my agitation. "Calm down. Keep the red in." The red segment of my color-based powers was generally linked to my emotions and had a bad tendency to blow things up if I got too angry. Tony had hounded me more than once for exploding his coffee maker eight or nine times when I had to channel the frustration somewhere. I closed my eyes and relaxed my pulse, telling myself that Peter was just a dumb kid who came from another time.

"How did you get here?" I asked finally, through clenched teeth.

"I ran faster than I ever had before. I remember a black tunnel with colored lights, and one white one at the end of it. I ran through it and spilled out in the field. I tripped, cut my face, and knocked myself out. I don't know how I knew I wasn't in nineteen-seventy-four anymore, but I just… knew. It was the last thing I knew before I passed out. When I woke up, you two were there."

"Why were you running faster?"

"I was being chased."

"I imagine that wouldn't be too big of a problem for you," I remarked.

"It is when you're being chased by someone faster than you," he retorted.

"Who?"

"I don't know."

"Okay. We'll come back when we have more questions," I said nonchalantly. "Wanda, keep him company will you?"

"Of course."

I took Pietro's wrist and dragged him out of the room. "We need to figure this kid out."

* * *

 **End Note: 2,500 words later, it's over! What did you think?**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	31. Far Too Young to Die (P)

**Author's Note: Because of this one's particular ending, I'm putting a review response in the beginning note instead of the end. Just know that this one-shot made me cry - twice. Once while I wrote it and again when I typed it up. I highly suggest listening to the song it's based from (Far Too Young to Die by Panic! At The Disco) before/during/after reading this. I'm still not exactly sure what a song!fic is, but this was my attempt at one. Takes place during AoU.**

 **To "AvengerFrost": As of right now I don't have a sequel to Age of Future Past written. At some point I may write one, but I have no new inspiration for a sequel just yet. Now, for that story you told me... *smirks evilly* first, totally go scare your friend, second, just wait for the one-shot I will be publishing soon (I've branched out from Loki and Pietro to Bucky Barnes!) called "Not Your Type." Just keep an eye out for it. You'll see why the second you read it. It's actually the most popular one-shot I've written on Tumblr. ;-)**

 **31) Far Too Young to Die**

* * *

I sat on the uncomfortable seat in the Quinjet, not exactly in a modeling pose but almost. Pietro sat on the other side of the cargo bay, drawing a picture in Steve's sketchbook. Apparently it was a picture of me. "I've never so adored you," I remarked to him. The other Avengers chuckled and Wanda grinned. Steve was watching Pietro draw. He gave me a reassuring smile, looking between me and the paper a few times with an impressed expression.

"Don't move," the speedster muttered. "I want to complicate you." He glanced up at me and made a few additions with his pencil. A smile edged up the corners of my lips. Pietro was grinning, tongue sticking out in concentration—the same way mine did.

We were heading to Sokovia to battle Ultron. I was already preparing myself for the likelihood that I wasn't going to survive.

And then the stupid side-effect of my powers kicked in. My vision went black and high-pitched ringing shrieked through my ears. My hands gripped my head and I fell out of my chair. Through the piercing noise I heard Pietro get down and kneel next to me, murmuring my name gently. "Don't let me do this to myself," I whispered brokenly.

My loving speedster wrapped his arm over my back. "I'm chasing roller coasters," he whispered.

It was a test for my mental state—to see if I was in control of my mind or if my powers were.

"I've got to have you closer," I muttered. He pushed my face into his chest.

It was the correct response, as well as true. Pietro was the only one who could get me through these things.

"When we make it out of this we'll read endless romantic stories."

I chuckled weakly. "You never _could_ control me."

He'd tried to help me control my abilities. It had never worked.

"Well, I never really thought that you'd come tonight. Because of all the side-effects of your gifts," Pietro commented as the darkness and the ringing subsided. "Not while the crown hangs heavy on either side."

"Meaning you thought I'd chicken out because control of my brain is so divided between me and my powers," I informed him sarcastically.

He shrugged. "I wasn't going to put it _that_ way," he remarked.

At that moment, there was a jolt.

We'd landed in Sokovia.

The rest of the team got off the jet, Wanda giving us a forlorn look as she went off to warn the citizens to get out, leaving me and Pietro on the floor. He passed me the picture he'd been drawing.  
"When this is all over, I'll finish it," he promised. It was beautiful. Detailed in certain places and lacking in others for aesthetic effect. In elegant handwriting at the top it said _My Goddess Princessa_. I grinned.

"It's amazing."

* * *

Pietro cracked his neck, smirked with the left half of his mouth, and took off. He tore through several Ultron-bots, ripping them apart, and skidded to a stop in front of me. "Give me one last kiss—while we're far too young to die," he said. I wanted to tell him we weren't gonna die. But I didn't know that.

I grabbed his hair and kissed him. It was burning. Passionate. Hungry. Desperate.

The next thing I knew I was in the church in the middle of the city, fighting off Ultron in all of his forms. I'd come so far from the terrified six-year-old neighbor-girl the Maximoffs had taken under their wings after I lost my parents too. I'd matured. I'd become brave. Confident. Proud of who I was. I was a queen. Graceful. Ruthless. Relentless. I was a survivor. I'd become a weapon of mass destruction—beautiful and powerful in my own way. I didn't cower when the first bolt of lightning struck in a storm. I _became_ the lightning. I was Chaos.

And I'd won. I'd defeated my own demons and fallen in love with my best friend.

Before I knew it I was in a lifeboat, covered in blood and exhausted. I couldn't see and the shrill shrieking in my ears was back. But Pietro was still out fighting. He couldn't come help me though. So I sat with my hands over my ears, blocking out the world, suffering in silence. Alone.

Then I felt it. Agonizing pain and a sudden sense of emptiness. The pain drove the darkness away. It cleared my vision just in time for me to feel every single bullet rip through Pietro's skin—my own flesh conscious of each individual sensation. He stopped running. I saw rosettes of blood blooming all over his sports shirt.

An anguished scream rent the air, torn from my throat.

Pietro turned to me, mouthed _I love you_ , said something to Barton, and fell over.

The pain I felt from the bullets suddenly vanished—though the scars remained.

He was… dead.

I leapt to my feet, ran over to him as fast as I could, and collapsed on the ground next to him. "No. _NO!_ " I pleaded, shouting, grabbing his shoulders. I knew it was too late. I was no fool.

I kissed his forehead, tears landing on his dirty skin.

 _I love you,_ I thought pleadingly, burying my face in his soft white hair.

"Far too young to die," I whispered.

* * *

 **End Note: ...**

 **Thank you for reading.**

 **~Cass**


	32. Date Night (P)

**Author's Note: This was another really popular one on Tumblr.**

 **32) Date Night**

* * *

I was seated at the table in the somewhat fancy restaurant, near the window, in a booth, staring out at the parking lot, waiting. He was going to come. He _had_ to come. It was date night. He promised me he'd come. Not that he'd _always_ kept his promises but he was a busy guy. Besides, every relationship was give and take, right? That's what my sister always told me growing up—and she was older than me so she was wiser than me. Maybe he was just in a meeting and couldn't escape because his one co-worker—Max?—wouldn't shut up. That had happened before. He'd always come to dinner breathless and apologizing.

I prayed beyond hope that Michael wouldn't stand me up. We'd been together for six months and so far it had been going pretty well. We'd had a couple tiffs but we'd worked them out. Every relationship had to have some give-and-take. We would never agree on everything. That was impossible.

The waitress came by, asking if I was ready.

"Could you give me a few more minutes? I'm waiting on someone," I replied.

"Sure!"

Five minutes passed. I was tracing patterns in the table with my fingernail, still looking out the window, my phone on the table in case he texted or called me. My stomach was growling quietly under the din of the other patrons.

Another five minutes.

Then ten.

Then fifteen.

Then twenty.

Twenty-five.

Thirty.

Forty-five.

An hour.

I felt tears start to sting in my eyes. The waitress had come by a few more times, asking if I was ready, asking if I'd been stood up, asking if he'd contacted me at all. The answers to the first and last were no. I hoped the answer to the second one was also no.

Then it had been an hour and a half.

I'd definitely been stood up.

And people were starting to notice. The other patrons were giving me apologetic looks out of the corners of their eyes, like they knew I'd just been left alone. I looked out the window, watching the blurs of cars speed past in an attempt to control my feelings. A blue blur zipped past the window—once or twice actually. And it was way closer to the restaurant than it probably should have been. But I wasn't paying attention to it. I was trying to wrap my mind around Michael leaving me alone. On _date night_.

Near tears, I moved to stand up and leave—after thanking the waitress.

The door to the restaurant suddenly flew open dramatically and a man ran in wearing a blue short-sleeve button-up shirt and a darker blue tie slightly loosened. His hair was wavy and white, with dark roots. He had darker stubble and electric blue eyes. He was tall and _super muscly._ He came right to me and dropped into the booth right next to me.

"Sorry I'm so late, babe. You would not _believe_ the traffic out by work. And Janette wouldn't shut up," he exclaimed, loudly, with a very thick accent that almost sounded Russian. He planted a kiss on my temple and then my cheek. Quietly, he added in my ear, "I'm Pietro by the way. Just go with it, yeah? Whoever didn't bother to show up is a—" He ended with a word that definitely wasn't English.

"A what?" I asked.

"You don't want to know," he decided.

"Oh. Okay."

He gave me another kiss on the temple. "Sorry I'm late!"

Everyone looking at us went back to their own thing.

The waitress came by. "Oh! He finally came!" she exclaimed. I smiled.

"Yup!" I said. I didn't like lying, generally, but I felt so relieved that the stranger had come to my rescue that I totally went along with it.

He ordered for me, after asking me what I wanted, and then started talking to me like we were old friends. But also asking me questions like my name and what I did for a living and my favorite TV shows and books.

"How did you know I'd been stood up?" I finally asked.

He shrugged. "I was on a run and saw a pretty girl sitting all alone in a booth, looking quite sad while people were staring at her and made my own conclusions." I didn't remember any guy as handsome as him running by while I was looking out the window… but then I hadn't been paying too close attention anyway—looking for Michael's car or some indication that he was coming—which hadn't come and then I'd been so distraught that I probably could have missed an alien invasion.

The rest of the night was absolutely amazing. We talked and laughed and when a patron who looked skeptical glanced at us, he'd give me a kiss on the cheek. He was extremely sweet and doing well at saving me. Not to mention he was like the cutest thing I'd ever seen in the fact that he was so mature in some ways and so naïve in others.

Long story short, it was the best non-planned, blind date I'd ever been on.

And then the waitress came with the check.

Even though I tried to resist, he still insisted on paying for me and walking me to my apartment building so that he knew I got home safe. We were standing in front of the tall brownstone, the doorman watching us but pretending we weren't there (I loved the guy—he was a British butler type), finishing up the last trails of conversations and stories. Pietro bent, kissed my knuckles, and worked his way up my arm. When he reached my shoulder he jumped right to my cheekbone in front of my ear. "Thank you for the wonderful evening, princessa," he commented, rolling over his words in his amazing accent. I'd learned he was from Sokovia—a small country in Eastern Europe.

I felt a blush creep over my skin. "Thank _you_ for saving me from what could have been a truly terrible date night," I replied.

"You are very welcome. Perhaps next Friday we could do this again? Properly?"

A date. A proper date with him. Given things were definitely over with Michael, I had no plans for next Friday. A happy grin crept up my face.

"I'd like that," I decided.

"I'll meet you right here at five-thirty. Wear something as beautiful as you are."

 _Wow_ this guy knew how to flirt.

I giggled, grinning like a blithering idiot. "Alright."

"It's a date then," he said brightly. "I had a wonderful time tonight."

"So did I. Thank you so much." I was genuinely grateful for his rescue.

In a moment of rash impulsiveness, I tugged on his tie, pulled him down, and gave him a kiss.

He smiled against my lips. "I am very much looking forward to Friday."

I grinned. "I am too."

"Have a good evening, princessa."

"You too, Pietro."

* * *

 **End Note: To "AvengerFrost": I'm sorry I made you cry. :'-( - (Sort of. I made me cry). Thank you for being so kind to review!**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	33. Pure Silver (P)

**Author's Note: I'm not a huge fan of writing in second person and I'm not very good at it, but someone on Tumblr requested I try it based on a deleted scene in Avengers: Age of Ultron that found its way to the internet. So this one-shot came to be!**

 **33) Pure Silver**

* * *

The Wonder Twins—as you had taken to calling them affectionately—had come back to the town in Sokovia, loaded with supplies for the masses of people in the city who just didn't have enough money to get things themselves. You'd known them long enough to consider them friends—particularly Wanda as Pietro was always avoiding you two like the plague whenever the two of you were together, claiming that you were dangerous whenever you were within three feet of each other. They were both lost souls, trying to find their way. To a certain extent, you were too. But so was everyone else in Sokovia so it didn't seem to be anything particularly special.

It was only recently that they had disappeared for around a year before reappearing—Pietro having changed his hair color and Wanda having more confidence than before. You like their changes—it makes you happy to see them feeling powerful.

It is the middle of the night and you wonder what they're up to. Pietro is always one for mischief, so that's your guess. He's been up to mischief. Again.

You slide through a few people, looking for your friends.

Finally you catch sight of Pietro Maximoff and his twin sister Wanda, helping out an elderly woman from the town square.

Smirking slightly at the wink Pietro was giving one of the girls he was helping out and the subsequent sassing Wanda was dealing on him, you make your way over to where they are. You greet Wanda first with a bright smile and a cheery wave. She gives you her own sort of crooked grin before bending over to get something from a box to help someone else.

Pietro catches sight of you and exclaims your name, quietly given it was the middle of the night. "How absolutely spiffing to see you!" he continues. You raise your eyebrows in amusement.

"Really?" you retort sarcastically. "Because usually when you see me you act like I'm not even there."

A tiny shade of red tints his cheekbones. "That, my sweet printessa, is only when you are in the company of my sister. Your combined minds are enough to take over the planet," he remarks. You chuckle lightly as he reaches into a box, still speaking. "Now draga, I think that I have something here that is just as beautiful as you are." It's your turn to turn a light shade of red as you wait. He's bent almost perfectly in half, leaving you to quite shamelessly stare at the back pockets of his jeans—if Wanda asked you about it later you would definitely deny that it happened but also comment you basically had nowhere else to look. But hopefully she just wouldn't notice or ask.

She already knew you'd had a mild crush on him since the moment you met them.

"Are you alright?" you ask as he still hasn't stood straight yet and his jacket and shirt are starting to slide up, revealing several inches of bare back. You can see powerful muscles flexing and rolling under his pale skin and you give a quick glance to Wanda to make sure she isn't watching you.

"Fine. I am fine," Pietro replies, voice strained from being bent double.

"You sure?" you tease, running your fingertip over his skin because you knew it would tickle.

He popped back up with a tiny yelp, holding something in his hands. "I'm sure," he snaps playfully. You laugh.

"Okay."

He chuckles your name and lifts what is in his hands. "Something beautiful for a gorgeous woman," he says, displaying it for you. You tug on your scarf, feeling your neck suddenly heat up uncomfortably.

The dress is pure silver, long glistening, and slinky, with thin straps. The way he's holding it, you can see the tag. It's your size—and for several long moments you wonder how Pietro knows what your size is. You never told him. Nor had you ever told Wanda—to your knowledge. For a moment you narrow your eyes before remembering that one time you went shopping with the two of them, just browsing really as none of you could really afford anything, and told Wanda to look out for anything in your size. You hadn't thought Pietro was listening at the time—but then, he always seemed to remember little things about you that you yourself didn't notice you'd even said.

You shake your head. "No. I couldn't—"

He cuts you off. "Just take it, printessa. We're not going to have a use for it if you don't! It certainly won't fit me!"

That makes you laugh. He always had a good sense of humor.

He shoves the material into your hands and you hold it, your fingers closing around the fabric on instinct. It's made of silk and is certainly grander than anything you've ever owned before.

You glance again over at Wanda. She's grinning. For a moment you think you see her eyes flash a dangerous shade of red, but then you shake the thought off. That's ridiculous. It must have just been a trick of the light—it's dark out anyway. She gives you a friendly half-smirk and turns back to minding her own business, helping someone out with soothing words murmured gently.

You look back down to the dress in your hands before turning your gaze back up to the electric blue one of Pietro's. He's smiling, waiting for your reaction. You give him a grin that lights up your eyes. "It's amazing. Thank you."

"It'll never be as amazing as you," he comments. A deeper blush hits your cheeks.

In a moment of rash impulsiveness you knew he was prone to, he grabs your jacket lapel and pulls your upper body so you're bent towards him.

He gives you a kiss on each cheekbone and one lightly on your lips.

When he pulls away your foreheads stay pressed together.

For several long moments, neither of you say anything. Your nose is full of his musky, spicy, scent and your head is swirling with emotions you haven't felt for a long time—the devastation of Sokovia has ruined you and most of the rest of the population for a long time of things like passion and desire. They have been lost in despair, grief, and anger. But right now, for a very brief moment, both of you get to feel something of what the rest of the world feels. At least when it comes to love.

"We missed you," he whispers before breathing your name quietly.

You smile. "I missed you too."

* * *

 **End Note: How'd I do? Not too bad I hope?**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	34. Four-Way (P-Steve-Bucky)

**Author's Note: Written because I'm caught in a four-way love-triangle-square between the three. Also because it was fun.**

 **34) Four-Way**

* * *

Steve and I had been together for something like three months when Pietro randomly caught me and kissed me and _Bucky Freaking Barnes_ admitted to having a crush on me. I was never exactly the most beautiful woman around— _hello!_ I lived in the same building as _Natasha Romanoff!_ —but I'd always had enough self-confidence to consider myself pretty. Long, brown, thick hair, brown eyes, short, and probably fifteen pounds over skinny. I wore boring T-shirts and cargo pants all the time with Converse. I was really confused why the speedster and former Soviet assassin liked me. Steve had once told me that he liked me because I wasn't like the other women in the century. Apparently I cared less about what I looked like or something along those lines.

So, in the three months since then, I'd developed a very complicated, strained, and awkward relationship with Bucky and Pietro. I wanted to be their friend, but Pietro was making it quite clear that he wanted something more. Bucky was being chivalrous and restraining himself, but sometimes I caught him looking at me during training.

Then, one morning, I was sitting in the main gathering room with my sketchbook full of crappy drawings on my knees. Natasha, Clint, and Steve were having a deep discussion about conspiracy theories. Steve's arm was around my shoulders idly as they talked. Bucky was in a corner on a laptop—probably figuring out how to work Google since I doubted HYDRA ever let him use the internet—and it appeared like he wasn't paying attention at all. Except for the few times he stole a glance at me when he thought I wasn't looking.

Pietro breezed in and sat on my other side on the sofa, looking down at my drawing.

I did my best to ignore him.

"No way! The Kennedy assassination was _not_ an inside job!" Steve exclaimed loudly, arm tightening around my shoulders.

Natasha rolled her eyes dramatically. "Well it wasn't the KGB so who else would it have been?"

"Not the CIA or the FBI!" Steve retorted.

"So determined to believe in the best of his country," Clint remarked sarcastically.

"That's not why I don't believe it was an inside job, Barton," Steve sassed.

The three of them kept arguing over the theory of a second shooter when Pietro stole my sketchbook and started to draw a picture on the last page, shockingly without his powers. Every time I tried to look at it he'd turn it away so I couldn't see. Bucky meanwhile was typing quickly on that laptop, his metal hand making noisy clicking noises.

Finally I got involved. "Steve! If you start gripping me any tighter you'll crack my ribs!" I called over their loud voices.

I felt Bucky and Pietro's eyes both turn to me.

"Sorry, darling," the captain muttered.

"It's alright. Just loosen up, old man," I retorted.

"Bucky!" Steve called across the room to his best friend—who still hadn't told him that he had a crush on his girlfriend. "Who do you think killed JFK?" Clint and Natasha were still discussing it while Bucky ran a hand through his hair and looked at the internet page he was on. He turned an old SHIELD PDF of a redacted file towards the rest of us.

The brunet licked his lips. "I think I did," he muttered.

The master assassins stopped talking and Pietro's constant scratching of my pencil silenced.

The entire room was deadly calm and eerily quiet.

I wasn't entirely sure the Sokovian speedster next to me understood the gravity of what my boyfriend's best friend just said, but he seemed to understand exactly how serious it was to us Americans. Sure Pietro knew that Bucky had been a brainwashed assassin for a super long time while being in cryo freeze in between, but he probably hadn't realized just how efficient and feared the Winter Soldier had been to those few of us in the intelligence community who believed he existed. The electric blue eyes turned to me with a question in them. I shook my head. _Later,_ I mouthed. I'd explain it to him later.

Steve and I both stood up and approached him. I brushed some of my hair out of my face and tucked it behind my ear so I could lean over the screen to read what was written.

It was SHIELD's file on the JFK assassination. Steve read it while Bucky and I stared at each other. I was searching his gaze for some sign that he didn't believe what he was saying. But there was none. Bucky genuinely believed that he'd killed an American president.

"How much do you remember about being the Winter Soldier?" I asked.

"Not a lot," he admitted. "They often wiped my memories—particularly of my past as Bucky—but sometimes I remember fragments. Images. Blood. Screams. Guns. Lots of guns." His voice started to quiver a bit as his mind slipped. He was still having trouble regaining who he was. Steve and I had done our best to help him, but sometimes there was nothing we could do. "I remember heat. Texas. Looking through crosshairs at a convertible."

I felt my eyebrows lift slightly. "Oh my gosh," I whispered. I was obviously too young to be alive at the time of the Kennedy assassination, but I knew that he was in Texas in a convertible.

"It's not your fault," Steve remarked.

"Of course it's my fault," Bucky retorted. "I was the one who pulled the bloody trigger!" In his frustration he slammed his prosthetic arm against the table and knocked his empty mug off from where it had been sitting precariously close to the edge. It fell to the floor and shattered. Bucky swore loudly in Russian (making Pietro snort) as I felt pain shoot up my leg from my foot.

"Ow," I hissed, looking down.

A shard of ceramic was impaled in my skin.

"Oh," I remarked.

Pietro was instantly behind me. "Are you alright?" he demanded.

"I have a fragment of mug in my foot," I commented, eerily feeling calm as I felt blood soak through my fuzzy sock.

"Infirmary. Now," Steve ordered.

Pietro didn't need to be told twice. He scooped me into his arms and took off. In about one second we were in the hospital wing. I was sitting on a gurney and a nurse was standing in front of me, looking shocked.

"She's hurt!" Pietro exclaimed.

After a few minutes of carefully removing my sock and X-Raying my foot to make sure none of those delicate bones in the top were broken, Steve and Bucky caught up. "Are you okay? I'm so sorry!" Bucky shouted the second he entered the room. I covered my ears.

"Not so loud, Buck. I'm fine. I'll get a couple stitches and a Band-Aid and be out of here," I replied calmly. "Besides, it was an accident and I've had worse."

The three men hovered over me like a flock of concerned mother hens. Steve was a little defensive of me when Pietro got too close, but he didn't seem to notice Bucky's equal concern. I watched my boyfriend, his best friend, and the younger Avenger carefully, still wondering how on Earth they _all_ liked _me_. I'm nothing special. I don't have powers, I don't have super-intelligence. I was nothing that they were—heck, they were all like some sort of pantheon of pagan deities in comparison to me. I was bland, boring, _human_. They were all far beyond that—they'd left humanity behind.

Yet they were all displaying their own humanity in caring.

* * *

 **End Note: Yeah? Good? Bad? Ugly? Beautiful? :-D**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	35. Tower to Ourselves (P)

**Author's Note: This is from a thing I saw on Pinterest. But, as always, I modified it just a little bit. And just to be clear, Sgt. Barnes is _not actually the main character's brother._ He just treats her like his little sister.**

 **35) The Tower to Ourselves**

* * *

I was doodling a very bad doodle in my small sketchbook when a weight dropped into the sofa next to me. "Will you do me a favor?" Bucky asked.

"Depends," I answered, glancing up from my drawing. One time his "favor" was making out with him while wearing a female Captain America costume on camera—apparently for the internet but he never showed me the video and every time I searched for it on YouTube it would come up as blocked no matter which computer or account I used.

He reached his normal arm into the neck of his shirt and pulled something over his head. I couldn't quite see what it was as he put it in his metal hand and passed it to me. I reached out and got a good look as he dropped it into my palm.

His dog tags.

"Keep an eye on these for me while I'm gone, that's all," he said.

I looked up curiously. "Where are you going?"

"Mission with Steve. That punk will get himself into trouble if I don't go."

I chuckled. "Good to know. I'll keep these safe. You don't mind if I wear them do you?"

"Not at all. Keep 'em warm for me."

I slid the chain over my head and pulled my hair out before tucking them down the neck of my shirt. "There. Now I won't lose them. Good luck, Bucky. Don't forget to take an extra sweater."

He kissed my cheek as he got up to leave the room. "I will. See ya soon kiddo."

"See ya."

With that he left.

Almost instantly after, another weight crashed into the sofa next to me. "Goooooood _morning,_ princessa!" Pietro exclaimed loudly. I grumbled and planted my forehead on my sketchbook, nudging him in complaint.

"It's too early for enthusiasm," I mumbled.

Pietro dramatically laid himself across my lap. "Yes, but enthusiasm is a wonderful quality, and it is not restrained by human concepts of time!"

"Get off me or I'll punch you," I threatened.

"You, my dear, are no fun!" he decided. I shoved him off my lap, sending him crashing to the floor. He sighed, again dramatically, and got back on the couch. "Come, princessa, we finally have a minute _alone_ without that animal of an older-brother-figure breathing down our necks!" I gave him an affronted expression and pushed him away from me.

"Don't call Bucky an animal because of what HYDRA did to him!" I snapped. "They could have done the same to you. The difference was you volunteered. He didn't have a choice. I love you but he's just as much a man as you are." I scoffed. "Though I don't know if you deserve to be called a man. Maybe a boy. Maybe a puppy." I slapped my sketchbook closed and stood from the couch. "You're going to meet me up in the party room in fifteen minutes. Then we'll discuss this further over… lemonade and cookies." I gave him a wink and a grin before departing to my bedroom to deposit my sketchbook. Discussing something over lemonade and cookies was basically our code for kiss on a sofa.

When I finally met up with him in the party room, I sat on his lap without any sort of preamble.

"I am sorry, princessa. I know how much you care for the Russian assassin. I did not mean to insult his honor in any way—or your feelings for him. I know you helped him remember who he was and rehabilitated both of us. I just… he's so protective of you that I can never seem to find a minute alone where I can express my feelings for you without him throwing me across the room with that metal arm of his." I couldn't help it—I chuckled. Those few times Bucky had chucked Pietro across the room had been hilarious even though I didn't want to see him hurt.

I gave Pietro a kiss. "It's okay. Believe it or not I understand how you feel. Sometimes I'd be okay if he laid off."

"Well… he _is_ gone for the weekend. Other-older-brother, Cap too," Pietro remarked flirtatiously. "We practically have the whole Tower to ourselves." He gave me a kiss on the tip of my nose before leaning in for my mouth. I kissed him back, wrapping my arms around his neck tightly holding him to me. This man was my puppy and I was totally in love with him.

"I think I like having the whole Tower to ourselves."

At that moment Steve walked across the room in his stealth suit, totally not noticing exactly how wrapped up in each other Pietro and I were. "New mission!" he exclaimed excitedly, strolling leisurely across the floor.

"Have fun," my speedster and me chorused. I slipped off Pietro's lap and moved to be sitting a friendly distance away. At the same time we counted, "Five, four, three, two…"

Bucky went running after Steve. "Hey punk you need more armor! And a sweater! It's five degrees out there!" He meant it in Celsius (which was about forty-one in Fahrenheit) because he never quite got back into the customary system after rehabilitating back from Russian to American—which was fine by all means since he was such a science nerd, but at the same time meant that he hadn't quite let go of the Winter Soldier. "Steve you need a sweater!"

"One," we finished.

Bucky really was an older brother to all of us—unless he was chucking Pietro across the room.

"I'm fine, Bucky. I've done this before without you nagging me to wear more armor," Steve retorted as they both retreated from the room. Pietro gave me an amused look as Bucky started swearing at Steve in Russian. I didn't understand Russian so I had no clue what he was saying, but Pietro thought Bucky's bad mouth was hilarious.

Once they were well and truly gone, I sat back on his lap and rested my head on his shoulder.

"I wish we could do this more often," Pietro remarked.

"So do I," I murmured into his sports shirt. "And I forgive you for calling Bucky an animal." I lifted my head and gave him a kiss.

* * *

 **End Note: Teehee. "Steve you need a sweater!"**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**

 **PS, how would you like to make out with Bucky Barnes in a female Captain America suit, eh?**


	36. Brown Eyes (P)

**Author's Note: This is the last finished, mostly-Pietro one-shot I've written. But HAVE NO FEAR! I still have a lot of one-shots written for other characters to be put up. Just probably not today. ALSO, while I'm talking, I wrote this because** ** _I_** **have brown eyes. And I've only ever heard them romanticized once or twice. It's kinda sad. It's always blue or green.**

 **36) Brown Eyes**

* * *

I sighed heavily. Working in my uncle's jewelry shop wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I thought of a "summer job" because I didn't know the first thing about jewelry (honestly my most-worn necklace was a leather cord with a silvery pendant hanging off of it that looked a bit like a dragon). But my uncle needed the extra help after his son moved to another state for college. He needed someone to do inventory and manage the appointments in the ledger. So I was signed up.

Plus I was probably making more than most other kids my age so I couldn't bring myself to complain.

One particular morning I was sitting at the desk, idly browsing Tumblr on the computer. We didn't have another appointment until the afternoon and walk-ins were rare. So for the next few hours I had nothing to do. My uncle didn't mind that I was on Tumblr. He was carefully cutting a diamond in the back for my older sister's engagement ring (that she didn't know about because her boyfriend wanted to surprise her but she'd had the ring style picked out since she was eight) and wouldn't be out for an hour or so. Which meant I still got to do whatever I wanted. And man, let me tell you, my Tumblr dash was hopping. I was a pretty obscure blog with only like fifteen followers, but I followed a lot of popular blogs and they always made me smile.

 _Ding-a-ling!_ The bell went off over the door.

I minimized my browser and turned. "Hi! Welcome to Grady's Jewelers! How may I help you?" I didn't bother to ask if he had an appointment because the book was in front of me and I knew he didn't.

Dang though. I'd never seen him before but he was one fine-looking guy. Tall, powerfully built, with silver-white hair and electric blue eyes. He was wearing a black suit but no tie. I caught sight of the royal blue pocket square hiding the bowtie behind it. I repressed a snicker. "Yes. I'm looking for a necklace that compliments brown eyes," he said, sounding awkward. He had a foreign accent. Probably some heir looking for something to woo some girl.

I couldn't help myself—I snorted. "Sir," I started carefully. "I have brown eyes. Nothing compliments them properly. They're bland and boring. Now if you're looking for blue or green or even gray eyes, _that_ I can help you with."

He tilted his head to the side. "But have you ever seen brown eyes in the sun? When brown stops being the proper word to describe them? When they start looking gold and brilliant? A circle of light around an eclipse? Or have you ever seen brown eyes at night? When their depth becomes bottomless and they turn black as the night sky itself? When the line between pupil and iris vanishes? Have you ever seen them in the light where they turn into a rich, delicious chocolate that one could stare at for hours? Brown eyes are beautiful—but too many people are convinced that they have no substance to them. I say: all evidence to the contrary."

I raised my eyebrows. That was an oddly beautiful speech. "Does she have brown eyes?"

"Who?"

"Whoever you want the necklace for."

"Yes. She does."

"She's a very lucky girl," I remarked, standing from my stool and moving a bit down the counter. "We do have a few things. I suppose. My best idea would be the gem Tiger's Eye. It's mostly brown but has bands of gold in it." I pointed to something in one of the locked glass cupboards below me—a golden chain with a Tiger's Eye pendant shaped like a perfect teardrop hanging off of it. "There's not much I can do for brown eyes. I'm sorry."

My uncle came out of the back at that moment and leaned against the doorjamb with his arms crossed pensively, watching me make a transaction even though it wasn't _technically_ part of my job. He was smiling and I was doing my best to not fluster.

"Though," I continued. "We have a decent selection of gold with citrine and topaz stones that could do nicely."

The young man with the accent shook his head. "No. I like the Tiger's Eye."

"Would you like to look at the rest of the selection? It's not a lot but…" I pointed out the rest of the Tiger's Eye. "It's a nice gem."

"Indeed," he agreed. "Which do you like?"

I shrugged. "Personally the teardrop is my favorite of them. But the Celtic knot is beautiful too."

"I would like to purchase the teardrop," he decided.

I glanced at my uncle. He shrugged, letting me continue with the sale. I pulled out the keys, unlocked the cupboard, and took out the necklace. After doing a few things in the computer—jewelry sales were complicated—I gave it to him. "Would you like a case or a bag, Pietro?" I asked, glancing at his name on the computer screen.

"No. Thank you."

"I hope she likes it."

He smiled. "I have a feeling that she will." He tucked the jewelry into the inside pocket of his jacket and left the shop. I sighed with relief, though I was a little sad to see my favorite Tiger's Eye go.

"Good job," my uncle complimented as I relocked the cupboard and put my keys back in my pocket. "Your first ever jewelry sale! I'm so proud of you! If Josh doesn't ever come back from New Jersey I might appoint you to be my successor for the shop!" The sarcasm in his tone was definitely not lost on me. I rolled my eyes. My cousin Josh would probably return home from New Jersey and take over the shop anyway. I wasn't necessary. Just the summer help.

"Thanks," I muttered.

We bantered for a few minutes and were just sitting down to have lunch when…

 _Ding-a-ling!_ The bell went off over the door. I didn't even bother to turn around to look as my uncle stood up.

A brown-and-gold teardrop lowered over my vision, settling on my chest and getting secured behind my hair. Gentle, warm hands pulled my hair out of it so that the chain relaxed against my skin.

Confused, I scrunched my eyebrows, stood up, and turned around.

Pietro was standing there, bowtie tied, with a single long-stemmed blood-red rose in his hand. He was smiling at me.

He touched the pendant.

"It compliments your eyes."

* * *

 **End Note: Likey? Yes? Tell me what you thought!**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	37. Dream Girl (S)

**Author's Note: We interrupt the never-ending Pietro broadcast for Steve Rogers!**

 **37) Dream Girl**

* * *

Steve sighed and closed his eyes. It had been a long day. He needed to get some sleep. He took a quick swig of the sleep-aid that tended to knock him out instantly. He pulled his shirt off, changed into his flannel pajama trousers, and went to bed.

Almost right off the bat he was dreaming.

 _He was in the New Avengers Facility, for some reason dancing to a song from a musical Natasha had made him watch._

 _"Steve," a voice murmured._

 _He stopped dancing and turned in the direction of the voice._

 _The girl was small, probably five-four at the most. Her hair fell in a black curtain down her back. Ethereally gray eyes glistened out from pale skin. She smiled at him._

 _"Steve. You can slow down now. You can stop the fighting. You don't have to keep going. You've already proved that you're brave. You've gone into the same fight over and over again and come out stronger. But you don't have to do it anymore. You can slow down. It's okay. Maybe only for a little while. You deserve it. You're a fighter but you have a rare opportunity to be a lover for a short while. Please, Steve, slow down. Come. Dance with me." She held her pale hands out for him. "Please, Steve. Dance with me." Her gray eyes glistened._

 _Steve stared at her. "Who are you?" he asked, even though he had the powerful feeling that he'd seen her somewhere before. She smiled softly, innocently, and approached him. She placed a smooth, silk-skinned hand on his cheek._

 _"You'll remember when it's time," she whispered, kissing him on the lower lip._

 _"Wait—why?" he asked as she faded._

 _"Because you're not meant to know me just yet," she replied quietly._

He awoke with a jerk.

Every night he had almost the same dream, just each time more vivid than the last. The black hair and gray eyes grew more and more detailed. And her clothes changed from a simple dress almost in the style of Wanda Maximoff, to a brightly-colored short frock and tall black leather boots. Her grin grew wider with each passing dream and her eyes gleamed a little brighter.

Once she even kissed him.

Finally, he went to the lab in the new facility and knocked on the door. "Come in," Bruce Banner called through the door. Steve slipped inside.

"Can I talk to you about something pressing?"

"Sure."

"I think there's something wrong with my brain," he told the biologist. "I keep having the same dream every night. But… I think it's getting worse." He sighed and relaxed against the wall. "I keep seeing this girl whenever I go to sleep. But now I can swear I'm seeing her when I'm awake." He shrugged while the doctor looked thoughtful.

"Well," Bruce started carefully. "It wouldn't be too surprising if you actually know her in real life. Our brains can't create faces on their own. Dreams pull faces from our real-life experiences. Where have you seen her before? In this facility? In the forties?"

Steve shook his head. "I don't know. I can't remember. I'd say that I've never met her at all."

"Well, perhaps you just saw her on the street one day."

"Then why do I keep seeing her in my dreams?" Steve demanded, frustrated.

"I'm going to take a wild guess and say that there's something in your mind that's unresolved and she's trying to tell you what it is."

"She keeps telling me to slow down, to stop fighting. She keeps telling me to dance with her."

"Well, if you have control over your next dream, I suggest you do just that."

"What's happening to my head?"

"Dreams are our mind's way of processing memories and turning them into long-term ones. I think that your brain's just finding a new way to process. I'm not sure. I'm not a sleep therapist. I'm not. I'm sorry."

Steve shook his head. "It's fine. Thanks for talking. I'm gonna go… take a walk."

He ran out of the facility and to the lawn surrounding it. He wandered for an hour. Then he saw.

Sitting on the grass was the figure of a female agent—probably formerly of SHIELD. She was doing something with a pad of paper and a pencil—Steve couldn't tell if she was drawing or writing, but she had her knees up to practically her chest so that her book could be propped up on them. There was a long black curtain of hair falling from her ponytail. Steve stared at it for a moment. _No way,_ he thought.

Recklessly, he approached her. "May I sit down?" he asked.

She looked up, gray eyes catching the sun. "Captain Rogers!" she exclaimed. "Of course!"

He sat down and stared at her profile for a moment as she continued bending over her book—she was drawing a picture of the facility, adding a few things not there—like a UFO on the roof.

"Good imagination?" he asked.

She chuckled. "I guess. But it's not too hard to dream this up. It seems like there are aliens everywhere here. I'm just the girl who cleans up all the messes but I still get to see everything. Everything here is a world beyond the one I was trained for and raised in."

Her voice, her face, her hair, her eyes—she was the girl from his dream. Except she was wearing cargo pants and an agent polo shirt instead of the brightly-colored dress. He noticed on her right hand, between her pinky and ring finger knuckles was a brown scab with some peeling around the edges revealing bits of blood and baby-pink healing skin.

"May I see anything more you've drawn?" he asked, trying to make conversation.

"You're not going to ask my name?"

"Not yet. I feel like I know you and I'm trying to remember where from."

She smiled. "Perhaps another lifetime." Her pale hand extended across the small space between them and passed him the book. "I don't draw much. Normally I make typography—art around letters."

After flipping through some designs like the Avengers' codenames with special things based on their powers or outfits, he came across something that made his blood run cold.

In graceful, elegant pencil, were three words, designed inside musical notes with a dress-and-tuxedo on the first letter of the first and last word.

 _Dance With Me._

He paused his idle looking to stare at it.

The girl smiled. "Do you like it? It's based off a dream I had—that you were in actually, if I may say so without sounding weird. Because I've seen you around here and our brains can't create faces so it uses ones we've already seen. I dreamt about dancing that night, in a bright dress with lurid colors and happy smiles. Everyone I knew was there—as were people I didn't know. I made that particular design because for some reason I kept saying those three words. To… I can't even remember who. But he resisted. I kept asking and asking, and finally he gave in." She stopped. "I'm sorry. I must be blabbing your ear off."

"No, no. It's fine," Steve said. "I just… heard those same three words in a dream I had. From… well. From you."

"Really?"

"Yes. May I ask your name now?"

She grinned and the gray in her eyes suddenly danced with all sorts of colors. "Aurora," she answered, turning her hand so her palm was flat out and faced upwards. A shimmer of light—like he'd seen once in a picture of Alaska—wove gracefully in the air, small but beautiful. "My name's Aurora."

"Beautiful…" he murmured, not even aware he was speaking out loud.

Her smile grew wider and she cast the aurora up into the daytime sky—where it expanded to full-size for only a moment before the light of the sun drowned it out. "You should see it at night." Her eyes were wistful. "I can't really use my power too often because no one knows I have it—except you, now. Because I know you know the value of power. You know why someone might keep it to themselves." The swirling colors in her eyes died down, slowly fading back to gray.

A very powerful urge gripped the captain's brain as he looked at her pale skin, black hair, and eerily gray eyes. Her head was turned so she was still looking at him. She leaned a bit towards him, like she was expecting him to say something. The smile on her face relaxed a bit and her lips closed around her teeth.

On impulse, Steve leaned forward and kissed her.

It was brief, chaste, and soft. Both of them closed their eyes for just a short moment and savored the sunlight and the feeling before pulling apart.

Aurora put her fingers over her mouth, eyes wide. "I'm sorry. That was a mistake I—I shouldn't have done that. Excuse me." She snatched her book from his hand, scrambled to her feet, and darted away. Steve stood up and watched her.

"Dance with me!" he called before she reached the door.

She froze and turned around. He couldn't hear her because she'd moved quite quickly in very little time, but he saw her mouth form one word. "What?"

He jogged steadily over to her until he was close enough that it was friendly but far enough that it was nothing more. "You heard me. Dance with me. Please. Maybe then both of our dreams will go away."

An almost mischievous gleam touched her eyes.

"Or come true."

* * *

 **End Note: Yeeeeeeessssssssssss! By the way guys, Disney is making a live-action Jungle Book, and Scarlett Johanson (I definitely spelled that wrong. I apologize) is being the voice of the snake (Kaa) and when the trailer came on, on YouTube as an add for a Fall Out Boy song I was listening to, and I was like, "What the heck is Black Widow doing in the Jungle Book?" And then I saw why and I was like, "Ooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	38. Winter Widow (B-Natasha)

**Author's Note: So, I don't ship Bucky and Natasha as Bucky and Natasha. I ship them as the Winter Soldier and the Black Widow - like they were "together" in some dark, shared past but have long since moved on. So I wrote this!**

 **38) Winter Widow**

* * *

The Asset closed his eyes, shutting down. He had just finished hunting very dangerous prey—and for the first time in his quite limited memory, he had a partner.

The Red Room had assured HYDRA that the Black Widow would be more a benefit than a hindrance on this particular mission.

The redheaded assassin was crouched on his right side. She was a beautiful young woman—if the Asset had time to think about such things. Clad in skintight, all-black from neck to foot, her green eyes looked out over the frozen wasteland while he crouched with his eyes closed. She gave him a glance out of the corner of her eye. She was pretty sure he'd be handsome if he ever took that muzzle of a facemask off. A few times she'd seen him without the eyeglasses—his irises were hazel and tended to change colors in the light. Sometimes the Black Widow had sworn they were blue. Other times green. And yet other times brown. Once she'd even seen them gray.

Not that she'd known him long. Just a few days while they'd been tracking and taking down their target.

The first time they'd met he'd given her a gun without a single word.

She'd known what it meant. She was his handler on the mission. The gun was in case she chose to "put him down" if he got out of line. Such was standard procedure in HYDRA with such high-value, but high-risk assets. They were brainwashed to give their handlers weapons.

The other reason was if they got caught, she was supposed to kill him.

They were both exhausted and worn out. But the Asset was like a machine—not even mentioning his arm. He kept going when the Black Widow was ready to collapse.

Not that she actually would. Weakness was not to be tolerated with HYDRA, the Red Room, or the man she'd accompanied on the mission.

But they were both being allowed to sleep. The Asset powered down first, lying on his back with his legs straight and his arms at his side. It couldn't have been comfortable. But he didn't say a single word and was almost instantly asleep. The Black Widow sat on the cold ground near him but not next to him, looking out over the wasteland with her lips pursed. She'd trained in Siberia in shorts and a tank top so it wasn't particularly cold, but she didn't like the lack of cover. If they were somehow ambushed—though she wasn't sure that was possible given how open everything was—they would have nowhere to get out of the firing lines.

She kept watch as the plain grew dark until the Asset tapped her foot. Then she curled up on her side and drifted off to sleep, wondering if the man even had a name, a friend, or even a voice. The entire time they'd been together, he had been silent. She'd talked a little bit but he only ever responded with facial expressions or nods or shaking his head.

The Asset looked down at the Black Widow woman as her side rose and fell with her gentle breathing. She was slim and small but he'd seen her power and agility in action when they'd taken out their target. She was beyond the other women he'd ever met or targeted in every way.

He wasn't supposed to feel emotions, or even feelings, but he was fascinated and curious about her. She had a very Russian beauty to her face, her lips, her eyes, her hair, her body. She was elegant. She was grace. Had she not been part of the Red Room she would have been part of the high society. She could very well have been Princess Romanov.

 _Romanoff_ … the name struck a chord. He seemed to remember when the Black Widow woman walked in to meet with him and his handler the Red Room representative she was with introducing her as a Romanoff. _Natalia Romanoff._

The Black Widow had a name.

He let her sleep longer than usual, wrapped in his own fragmented thoughts. Normally they took shifts of three hours. But he was edging five by the time he woke her and rested against the ground once again himself. She didn't appear to notice that he'd let her sleep.

But she _had_ noticed. When he shook her shoulder to wake her, she felt much better rested than she had for the past several days.

Knowing he'd be asleep in moments, she leaned down, holding her hair out of the way, to whisper in his ear, "Thank you." He went rigid—unused to hearing kindness from anyone—and opened his eyes to stare at her. She tilted her head to the side, innocent but seductive. He knew she was far beyond the realm of innocent—no one in the Red Room was—but the look was almost like a dewy-eyed school girl. He thought. He wasn't entirely sure what a dewy-eyed schoolgirl was _supposed_ to look like. He felt like he'd once known, but forgotten.

"You're welcome," he replied cautiously.

She kissed his cheek, making him start, and then went back to keeping watch.

She too, wasn't used to kindness from others.

* * *

 **End Note: Yup. That's what I think. To "AvengerFrost": I can't wait for Jungle Book too! And I'm glad you liked it!**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	39. Ghost Story (B)

**Author's Note: I love this one. That's all I have to say. And I also just want to comment that usually the song mentioned in the one-shot is the one I was listening to on repeat while writing the one-shot, or the one I associate with the character.**

 **39) Ghost Story**

* * *

I gave the guy at the bus stop a slightly awkward grin, still listening to _Monster_ by Imagine Dragons. It wasn't like I'd had it on repeat for an hour or anything.

He wasn't unattractive. Slightly overlong brown hair, hazel eyes that seemed to change color, some stubble but not a lot, tall, fit. He wore long cargo pants, combat boots, and a brown jacket with both hands in the pockets.

But there was this nagging sensation in the back of my mind that I'd seen him before. _Somewhere_.

Apparently we were thinking the same thing because before I knew it my headphones were out of my ears and we were shamelessly staring at each other's faces. "Where have I seen you before?" he demanded. _Dang it,_ I thought angrily. Even his voice was familiar.

"I don't know," I growled back, glaring at him. I wasn't sure why I was so angry. Probably because it was driving me crazy. Usually I had a very good memory for faces. A terrible one for names but not faces. I remembered most of them.

"What's your name?" he asked.

I shifted my right hand so it was out of sight, thankful for the moment I was wearing gloves because it was cold outside. Something about this guy made me want to hide it. Angrily I internally reminded myself that I wasn't supposed to be ashamed of my prosthetic. But this guy radiated a strange sense of danger. It made me want to look strong. And sure my hand was strong… but he would see it as a weakness. Most people did. Until I punched them with it and several pounds of powerful metal hit them in the face.

"Cass," I answered carefully.

Then…

" _Oh gosh,"_ he whispered. Instantly I knew why I'd known him—his remarkably clean mouth around a "lady" despite the brainwashing caused old memories that I'd been repressing for _years_ to slot back in place.

"James," I breathed.

For a very brief moment a powerful impulse to kiss him surged over my brain.

Memories of nights lost in the cold wilderness, memories of nights lost in passionate kissing in the corner—as far away from the security cameras as possible—with metal prosthetics getting hopelessly tangled in hair (I wasn't sure that was an actual memory or one I fantasized about), memories of nights hidden in darkness, crosshairs aligned to take out a target. All of it cascaded through my head as I looked at the assassin in front of me. The Winter Soldier.

Not that he'd known others called him that. To HYDRA he was just "the Asset." Which was a stupid name.

I'd only found out his real name when I'd stolen his file.

Because I was _that_ type of spy.

I didn't like following orders. Not that I'd ever been ordered to not steal his file.

Most of my old life as an assassin was buried. I'd only done it through my teenage years, training during my pathetic excuse of a childhood, and once I was twenty-one, I was _out_. I changed my name. I went to college (as well as therapy—without divulging all the details). I made friends for the first time in my life. I forgot about the man who I may or may not have made out with—depending on if that was a memory or a dream—lost in a night of desperation and longing for human contact.

To be honest, I'd done a pretty good job at hiding my prosthetic hand with the red star on the back during college. Just wore a glove and told people I had a prosthetic that I didn't like showing. My roommates had never even seen it.

But for the moment, we just stared at each other. I was wrapping my mind around seeing him again so far away from HYDRA and trying to reconcile that kissing memory at the same time. "So you're Cass now?" he asked, almost teasingly—which was weird because it seemed out of character for me. "What happened to Alianovna?" I shrugged nonchalantly. Between the two of us I'd always been the most casual. As the Winter Soldier he'd only said like ten words to me in the eight years I'd known him.

"Changed it. I had to bury Alianovna and everything that came with her. Including my memories and my old codename. Alianovna and Ghost are dead," I explained casually.

"Yet she's all I see in front of me."

I smiled. "Well, you'll see Cass eventually. I can't be Ghost anymore. Can't be Alianovna."

We were silent for a moment and I became very conscious that the bus was later than usual.

Finally he scrunched his eyebrows and looked down at me. " _Do you remember the night we kissed?_ " he asked carefully—in Russian.

My mouth dropped open. "So that was a memory? I thought I dreamed it up!"

"It was a memory. We were in a cold HYDRA warehouse somewhere in Siberia. They put us in that bare room for the night before we would be shipped back to the main facility. You were in a tank top and shorts. I was in shorts. It was cold. Neither of us had touched another human's skin in… probably months—maybe years—unless we were torturing them. We'd both lost a hand so we couldn't feel everything—" At that moment we both glanced down at our hidden metal prosthetics. "—but I remember holding your left hand in my right—our intact ones. I remember trying to feel your hair when I brushed it away with my left to no avail. I remember how _warm_ your normal hand was as it held the back of my neck."

I closed my eyes, reliving the memories as he spoke them, leaning forward and resting my forehead on his chest. He buried his nose in my hair and started mumbling sweet-nothings in Russian.

I remembered it too. My right hand feeling light and gentle instead of heavy and awkward like usual. He hadn't been wearing a shirt and despite the cold his skin was warm—hot even. I remembered burrowing as deep into his side as I could, so starved for human comfort that I'd forgotten all protocol. We'd cuddled for a while like that, keeping each other warm as best we could, before he took my prosthetic hand and kissed it.

Needless to say, I'd been shocked. I was probably eighteen— _maybe_ nineteen—at the time and had never been on a date or kissed. Much less by the handsome guy I killed people with who'd probably said eight words to me that entire time—in any language.

I remembered kissing his metal shoulder, and the line where the Vibranium met skin. His was scarred far worse than mine and it made even my super-tight heartstrings tug. From there I went right to his lips.

The rest of the night I stayed sat on his lap, mouth moving incessantly and hands resting on his shoulders. His were on my mostly-bare back, under my arms, cold metal fingers somehow ending up under the strap of my tank top. At some point my right hand slid up into his hair—a bad idea since it got caught in the plates—and his left arm got tangled in the long ponytail my hair had been in.

Okay. So as the memory came flooding back with all its original vivacity, I decided I hadn't dreamed it up after all. Though I may have over-romanticized a few points.

At that moment, the bus pulled up. I pulled away from the Winter Soldier's chest and got on it, pulling him after me. "Well, James, it seems we have a lot to catch up on," I remarked, sitting him down next to me. He gave me an almost-amused grin.

"It would seem so, _Cass,"_ he retorted. "Oh. And call me Bucky."

* * *

 **End Note: Oh yeah! How was that?! I loved it! (Yes, I know Alianovna is Natasha's middle name. I just thought it was pretty and wanted to use it.)**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	40. American Hero: Reborn (B)

**Author's Note: This one involves the death of a major character - but it happened before this story. This one-shot is the aftermath.**

 **40) American Hero: Reborn**

* * *

After three days of searching after he disappeared from the captain's funeral, I finally found Bucky in Steve's apartment at the Avengers Tower, sobbing. I'd thought about looking there earlier but it hadn't seemed likely. I thought he'd be in Steve's DC apartment or even the tiny one in Brooklyn Steve had only stayed in for a few months.

He was holding the Captain America shield and suit from the forties to his chest, body shaking, wracked with tears. There was a bottle of _strong_ Russian vodka on the floor next to him. I only knew it was strong and Russian because it was one of Natasha's favorites.

Had it been anyone but him stealing from her stash they'd be murdered in a prank war—and then perhaps just murdered.

I stood silently behind him, watching, remembering that one time he cracked a super dirty joke in front of the entire Avengers team (and myself). The whole group looked like they'd expected Steve to be scandalized by his friend—they were from "nicer" times after all—but Steve had snorted soda out his nose (much to my amusement) and everyone looked confused. " _What? You guys remember we were in the army right?_ " Bucky had asked. Everyone looked like they hadn't quite known how to react to that while I was laughing my head off—both at the joke and his comment.

That had been a funny day. And so much had happened since then. Bucky had cut his hair and shaved, getting closer and closer to who he once was. The team had learned to accept him—including Tony, who'd had more reservations than anyone given the brainwashed young man had assassinated his parents. I'd seen so much in the past two years.

And now Steve was gone. The man, the captain, the friend.

Dead.

Bucky was taking it worse than anyone else. Steve had been his rock, his best friend, the guy who made him remember who he was. Without him I wasn't sure Bucky would be able to keep it together. I was still his handler—still the one who accompanied him everywhere and watched Disney movies with him when he had nightmares—but I was no Captain Rogers.

I licked my lips and knelt just behind him. "On your left," I murmured quietly so he'd know I was there. I put my hand on his back and rested my cheek on his metal shoulder. Bucky ran his sleeve under his nose. "No. It's alright. Go ahead and cry."

"I've been crying for three days," he muttered, voice thick with tears and emotion.

"Don't stop for me."

"No. I need to move on."

"It's too soon to be saying that," I said. Bucky dropped the suit but kept holding the shield, turning around and planting his face just below my neck on my chest. I wrapped my arms around him. "He was your best friend in the whole wide world. You don't have to be ashamed of crying for his death. Okay? You're allowed to feel grief." He nodded into my chest while I stroked his forties-styled hair, twisting it around my fingers. He reached one arm up and draped it over my shoulder, holding me to him as I let him weep.

"I'd forgotten emotion for so long, I almost don't remember what it feels like," he whispered.

I shook my head, chin resting in his hair. "That's okay. You're remembering now."

He cried for several hours. I'd shifted from kneeling to sitting and just held him, letting him sob. Everyone else would expect him to "man up", to "suck it up", to "keep it in". _He_ expected him to do all those things—he was from the forties and apparently that's what they did.

I didn't. I expected him to be human and mourn the loss of his best friend.

"Who's the nation going to look up to now?" He sounded broken and lost, clutching the shield to his chest with his metal arm. I idly rubbed at the hair on his neck where it met skin.

"You," I answered.

Bucky choked. "W-wh-what?" he stuttered.

"Steve would want you to take up the shield and the mantle. You know that. He wouldn't trust it to anyone else."

Finally he pulled away from me, looking straight into my eyes. "I can't."

"Of course you can. No one could be Captain America better than you."

"Except Steve," Bucky muttered. "He made it look so easy."

"I know," I murmured quietly. "But one day, you will too."

Gently I pulled the shield out of his grip and slid the straps up his metal arm. When I'd finished, he just stared at it blankly while I gave him a sad grin. I had my hand on his shoulder, rubbing my thumb over the line where his prosthetic met his skin. I used my other hand to wipe the tear tracks from his face. He turned his broken eyes up to me.

"See, Cap? Already you're looking like an American hero," I whispered. "And who knows? You didn't stay dead forever. Maybe Steve will return the favor."

That made him chuckle, but it was humorless. "Doll, Steve could survive a lot, but I'm sure even he couldn't live through that."

"Well, that punk is always full of surprises. Just keep the shield warm for him till he gets back." I stood up and extended my hand out for him. "C'mon Buck. Time to introduce the new Captain America to the rest of the team." He took my hand and let me help haul him to his feet. "You're gonna be brilliant. Now put on the suit. It may be a bit big, but we can make a new one or have it taken in." I wanted him to be allowed to mourn, but I also wanted him to realize how good of a Captain America he had the potential to be. And I knew I was right: Steve wouldn't trust it to anyone else.

I closed my eyes while he slowly put on the suit and didn't look back to him until I felt a leather glove rest on my shoulder. I turned around and grinned. "How do I look? Because this feels… wrong," he asked, tugging on the too-big shoulders. My smile grew wider.

"You look like an American hero. Reborn. And you also look like a dang-fine Captain America." I licked my lips. "Just remember, when fangirls are throwing themselves at you that you're mine."

He grinned. Good. He was getting distracted. "Am I yours? You never said directly."

"James Buchanan Barnes, you've been mine since the moment I was assigned to be your handler." I took his right hand in my left and we left Steve's apartment. I pushed a few buttons on the wall so that a quick alert ping would go to the rest of the team to meet in the main gathering area. I led Bucky there, grinning widely as he hefted the shield a bit, awkwardly trying to get used to it.

Finally we made it to the gathering room. Most of the team was already there.

"Avengers, if I may have your attention please!" I called over their quiet chatter and gossip. They all turned silent and stared at me, holding Bucky's hand while he wore Steve's old suit. "I'd like to introduce you to the new Captain America!"

There were smiles and quiet cheers from the team.

I looked up at Bucky. He was smiling, seeing how much the team truly accepted him for the man he'd become—not the assassin he'd once been. I leaned against his side.

"See? You'll make it look easy too," I whispered.

* * *

 **End Note: Yeah. Sorry if there were feels. Love y'all!**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	41. The Storm Will Pass (B)

**Author's Note: I loved writing this one. :-)**

 **41) The Storm Will Pass**

* * *

"Hey, can I ask you a favor?" Steve asked as I opened my apartment door. There was someone standing behind him.

"Depends on what you need," I answered.

"Just watch out for him for a few days while I go take care of some stuff."

"Why me?"

"You're the only one I know who can handle him."

I shrugged, looking at the thousand-yard stare of the man behind my friend. "Okay."

He leaned forward. "Just be careful, he's stronger than he looks," Steve whispered.

"It'll be fine. When are you getting back?"

"Probably Friday."

"Yeah. I can totally handle one guy for that long. Go do your Avenging stuff. We'll be here."

"Thank you, Cass. I know it's short notice and I'm really sorry. You're the only one I can trust who has the physical capabilities to handle him in case of emergencies." Steve gave me a massive hug, a kiss on the cheek, and took off, leaving his friend standing in the doorway, staring at me blankly. He was handsome. Clean-shaven, brunet, hazel eyes that changed color in the light as he shifted his weight from foot to foot but mostly came off as blue. He wasn't quite as tall as Steve—or as bulky—but he was tall and fit. The kind of guy my immature friends and I would stare at if we walked past him or something. He was wearing a jacket with his hands shoved in the pockets, jeans, and sneakers.

I put out my hand. "I'm Cass. Nice to meet you."

"Bucky," he muttered, shaking it with a shockingly powerful grip.

"Come on in. I was just about to watch a movie. Want some popcorn?" I beckoned him over the threshold. "Sit down, make yourself at home."

"What makes Steve think you can handle me?" he asked. "I'm dangerous."

I chuckled as I put another bag of popcorn in my microwave. "I beat the Winter Soldier in hand-to-hand combat when I was seventeen-years-old. And I've grown better since then." Bucky blanched, his face going eerily pale. "Are you alright?"

"Yes I'm… I'm fine."

"Did I say something?"

"You mentioned the Winter Soldier. He's a monster. And you beat him."

I shrugged. "Yeah. I've been fighting my entire life. Spent a lot of time as a SHIELD agent. Hawkeye and Black Widow trained me up a little bit more. I borrowed from their respective styles and long story short, when I went up against the Winter Soldier, I won." I smiled to myself as the popcorn popped. "I don't know who was more surprised, me or him. I couldn't see most of his face but that look in his eyes… it spoke more than his mouth could have. Why did mentioning him affect you so?"

He licked his lips thoughtfully. "Promise you won't freak out?" he asked.

"Yeah. Promise." I really wanted to know.

"I _am_ the Winter Soldier," he said.

I raised my eyebrows. "Prove it."

Bucky sighed and unzipped his jacket, standing from the couch as he did so. He pulled it off to reveal a blue body-hugging T-shirt that made me stare at his torso for a good few moments. Then I caught sight of his arm. He rolled up the short sleeve to show the red star on his metal deltoid.

But something in my mind refused to believe him. "That could have been a SHIELD experiment to replicate the Winter Soldier's," I dismissed.

Bucky sighed. "Do you really want me to prove it the way I _think_ you want me to prove it?"

I nodded. "Yup."

"You want me to fight you."

"Yup," I repeated.

"You really won't just believe me?"

I shrugged. "I have trust issues. Just let me get out the popcorn first." Because priorities.

Now, I wasn't a fool. I knew exactly what he was going to do. He'd attack the second I turned my back to get the popcorn out of the microwave. So I moved quickly and got the bag onto the counter and whirled to block his first attack. I countered with my own and landed a blow to his stomach that knocked the wind out of him. He threw his prosthetic arm towards my head and I only barely managed to dodge, cutting my cheekbone on one of the metal plates that made up his fist.

The more we fought, the more I realized this lost soul _was_ the assassin I'd beaten six years ago. He fought the exact same way, even without his strange arsenal of weapons he'd somehow managed to pack on his person.

Finally, with my knee on his chest, my arm on his throat, and his Vibranium limb trapped under my other leg, I shrugged nonchalantly. "Okay. I believe you," I conceded. "Now let's watch that movie."

"You're bleeding," he remarked.

I touched my fingers to my right cheekbone and pulled them away. There was blood on them. "So I am," I remarked.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it. You did worse to me last time. I was in the hospital for three weeks but I won."

"I'm glad you did. I don't want to know what would have happened if you'd lost." He stared at me and toyed with a strand of my hair. "You're very accepting and forgiving of me given I put you in the hospital for three weeks," he remarked. I shrugged again.

"I'm in the hospital for three weeks after every mission. And trust me, _Bucky_ , a brainwashed assassin is _not_ the weirdest thing I've ever seen in my line of work."

"Thank you," he murmured.

I climbed off of him, went over to the popcorn, and poured it into a giant plastic bowl. I went back to the sofa where he'd made himself comfortable. I passed him the bowl and took up my own. I started up the movie and sat on the other end of the sofa from him. I was very nonchalant on the outside, but doing my best to suppress my freaking out inside. This guy had nearly killed me—it was the worst beating I'd _ever_ taken—and he was eating popcorn in my living room with me while we watched _Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol_.

I did believe that what was left of the Winter Soldier was crouched somewhere in Bucky's mind. But it looked like he'd fought it down. The look in his eyes was pretty placid and relaxed, even if he was a little bit apprehensive of being with me.

"Thank you, Cass," he said when the movie was over. "For watching out for me for the next few days."

"You're welcome."

"I need to warn you, though. I have nightmares and PTSD. And sometimes I forget who I am. Sometimes you may have to fight the Winter Soldier off again."

Again, I shrugged. "I can do that. Let's get your bed ready," I remarked, standing up. I put the popcorn bowls in the sink and went to my spare bedroom. I only lived in a two-bedroom apartment for when Steve or my sister or my best friend needed a place to crash away from everyone else. I never touched the guest bedroom unless someone stopped by. Then I washed everything after they left.

Bucky trailed behind me while I opened the door and started to remove the decorative pillows and turn down the sheets. He brought in the backpack that I hadn't even noticed that I assumed had some clothes and stuff in it.

"You use the bathroom first," I instructed. "Then get some sleep."

He followed my orders. I used the bathroom after him to brush my teeth and shower before going to bed.

I sat in my covers on my laptop, boredly typing a log of my day.

It was around two in the morning when I heard the former Winter Soldier wake up. He'd been talking in his sleep since about midnight—mostly in Russian, which I didn't understand, but every so often there'd be something painfully heart-wrenching in English ("Please don't! I don't want to kill anymore! Don't make me murder my best friend! I'm trapped in the cage and it's my own body!")—but he'd finally woken himself up. I heard him hyperventilate. I rolled out of bed in my pajamas and knocked on the door to the spare room before sticking my head in.

"You okay?" I asked.

He wasn't wearing a shirt and I realized how far up his metal prosthetic went. "Yeah. Fine," he replied. I raised one eyebrow skeptically. "Okay. Not so fine." His shoulders slouched.

I walked over to the double bed and sat on it next to him. "Wanna talk about it?"

"No," he muttered.

I wrapped my arm around his back and gave him a hug. "Well, if you do, I'm here."

"It was just a bad dream. I was the Winter Soldier again, but I was _me_ too. I was trapped inside my own head and beating up and killing Steve in the crashing helicarrier all over again. I can't escape my past!" he told me. I tilted my head to the side to rest it against his. "No matter how far and hard I run, I can't escape the monster I was!"

I shrugged. "Sometimes you can't. And oftentimes you won't. But you don't have to run. You don't have to escape. You just have to win. It is, after all, your own mind. And you've regained control of it. So now you just ride out the storm. It'll pass. They almost always do."

* * *

 **End Note: How you like? Yay? Nay?**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	42. Wiped (B)

**Author's Note: T** **his chapter was heartbreaking to write. It contains torture (warning if you're touchy on that) - but not unlike the most heartbreaking scene in the MCU ever.**

 **42) Wiped**

* * *

The Asset wasn't supposed to feel anything. He was a cold-blooded assassin with no empathy, no mercy, and no heart.

But standing there, watching them Wipe her, he felt a twinge in his chest.

When he'd first met the girl, her long hair had been thick, rich, lush, and her eyes had contained a spark of intelligence and humor. Now those deep brown irises were flat, blank, broken, hollow, and her hair was still long and thick, but it was scraggly, greasy, and many of the ends were split. It was so damaged that even the customary braid it was in couldn't hide the fact that it wasn't cared for. He'd been sent to obtain her for HYDRA several decades ago. In order to make her submissive, he'd nearly killed her. The technicians had dragged her back to life, removed her right hand, replaced it with a Vibranium prosthetic for efficiency and performance improvement, and Wiped her of every memory she'd had. The Asset had trained her to be similar to him, just faster since she didn't have his physical strength.

Like him, she had no name. He only knew her as _the girl._

He knew they had to Wipe her harder than they did him. Her brain was still young, no quite developed yet. It hurt her worse than it hurt him.

He could tell by her screams.

She was leaned back in the chair he usually occupied, in extremely short shorts and a sports bra. There were bruises on her face and cuts on her exposed skin, coupled with smudged dirt, she was the picture of tortured—even more so than him. Every muscle he could see clenched as the restraints clamped over her arms and the metal plates slid into place around her head. Both of her hands shook, curled into fists. Her breathing was heavy. And her jaw was taut around the mouth guard.

Half-naked, beaten up, tortured, she sat there with a new gleam in her eyes.

Defiance. Holy fury. _Revenge._

The Asset decided to say nothing.

Then the electricity hit her, pounding hundreds of volts though her brain, frying out her memories. The Asset—who knew the pain better than anyone else—could only watch as she screamed bloody murder. High-pitched, blood-curdling shrieks echoed through the empty space. His eyes closed so he didn't have to see the tears streaming down her face. So he didn't have to see her agony as the blood oozed out of her cuts with her straining.

His own experiences in that chair were horrifying, but his own reactions were restrained shouts.

Hers were pure, unadulterated screams. Bawling and weeping through the anguish.

And when it was finally over, when the restraints let her go, when she was no longer bound, she slid out of the chair like she'd melted and collapsed on the cold stone floor, shuddering and shivering. Goosebumps covered all of her flesh, even on her scars.

"Get her out of here," a handler ordered the Asset.

He bent, hauled her up, and roughly removed her from the room.

Once he was out of sight of his superiors, though, he was much gentler. He walked slowly to not jar her injuries and held her tightly to hold what was left of her together. Her limp, dank hair hung in empty space as her head lolled backwards. She was unconscious and her breathing was weak. With his normal arm, he could feel how cold her skin was.

If he thought HYDRA had broken him, they'd completely destroyed her.

He took her to her holding chamber and laid her gently on the cot. He spread the thin blanket over her strong but weak form and stared at her face for a few moments, head tilted to the side.

There had always been some inkling of emotion every time he saw her—and he had never known what it was and never dared to ask. He just knew that when he saw her his chest felt warm and when she screamed his blood ran cold. It was probably just his brain chemistry messing with his body though. So he dismissed it. He was the Asset. He was made to not feel anything. There was no correlation to the sight of her and the random sensations of his body.

So why did he linger at the doorway as he moved to leave, looking back at her?

He shook his head, shaking his overlong hair out of his face, and left after locking her in.

Back to the barren room full of superiors. He removed his jacket and the protective undershirt he wore under it, leaving his entire upper body exposed. He sat in the chair that the girl had just been in and leaned back, taking his much larger mouth guard into his jaw.

It was his turn for the Wipe.

And for some reason, he was not afraid. He felt brave, and strong, for the first time in a long time. That girl's spark of defiance and revenge against those who had done this to her had awakened something inside of him. A form of rebellion that HYDRA wouldn't notice until it was too late. He would be fighting them off for the control of his mind.

And he was not letting go.

* * *

 **End Note: I can't wait for Bucky to get his revenge on HYDRA.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	43. Not Your Type (B)

**Author's Note: I actually wrote Brown Eyes after this one, and before Brown Eyes became my most-noted post on Tumblr, this one was. Trying to sound confident, not arrogant: Prepare for a good one! (Also I realized my characters eat cereal a lot. I don't. I'm not a morning person and I keep writing these things so they take place in the morning. What?)**

 **43) Not Your Type**

* * *

"Hey Chaos!" Sam Wilson called, jogging up to me in his running clothes while I ate cereal in my pajamas, watching a bad reality TV show without really watching it. I smirked at the use of my codename. No one knew my real one because I'd never told them—except Natasha because she'd stolen my SHIELD file once. But she'd sworn not to tell anyone. I turned tiredly.

"Hmm?" I inquired.

Sam dropped into the seat next to me. "Would you like to go out on a run with me? I know you have like super-speed or something but I want to go out with someone other than Steve." The bitterness in his voice made me grin.

"Sure. Let me go change."

That took about two seconds.

I sat back down next to him, fully decked out in my own running outfit—gray tank top complete with Cap's shield emblazoned on the chest, bright blue shorts, and gray sneakers. "Shall we?" I stood up and offered Sam my hand. He was a good guy and always there for everyone should they need it. I liked that. He'd quite quickly become my friend when I was first dragged away from home to be a part of the team. The others had slowly grown on me but Sam was there from the beginning, cracking jokes about Steve being old and reassuring me it would be okay. I always felt like I owed him.

So we went out running.

It was agonizingly slow for me, but he seemed to keep up a pretty good pace for a normal human. We were out on the track of the New Avengers Facility, going around and around. Occasionally poking fun at each other or some of the people running around in uniforms—probably former SHIELD agents. Sam didn't dare challenge me to a race though. He knew I'd win—even without using my powers to any major extent I was still much faster than him.

And then we were joined.

"ON YOUR LEFT!" Steve shouted at the same moment an unfamiliar voice called, "ON YOUR RIGHT!"

Two men ran past us. Steve, as mentioned, and another one. Tall, brown hair, fit, wearing a black tank top and running pants. His left arm was metal with a bright red star on the deltoid. _Dang_ , I thought as I shamelessly stared, lips open and tongue tip pressed to the roof of my mouth. _He's one fine specimen!_

Bucky Barnes.

I'd never seen him before—except in old pictures from WWII. He was a lot more attractive in person.

"Tell us, Sam Wilson, how does it feel to be slower than two ninety-six-year-olds?" Steve joked in his impression of a news reporter, jogging backwards slightly ahead of us. Sam rolled his eyes while Bucky laughed. Steve and his best friend turned back around and they went back to running.

I glanced pleadingly at Sam as the two super-soldiers started to pull away from us. "I'll be right back!" I pleaded.

He sighed. "Fine. Go have your fun," he relented.

I smirked and blasted away.

"IN BETWEEN!" I shouted at the top of my lungs as I bolted between them at about fifty miles per hour. I knew Steve's average was around twenty six, so I was only going twice his usual speed, but it was still fast enough that I overtook them in seconds, running through the gap in between them, cackling, red blur trailing behind me. I zipped around the rest of the track and then caught back up to them again. "Tell me, Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers, how does it feel to be slower than a twenty-year-old _girl?_ " I taunted in my own impression of a news reporter, turned around and jogging backwards, giving them a taste of their own medicine. Their blue eyes glared at me. I was shamelessly staring at Bucky Barnes, but he didn't seem to notice.

I cackled again, circled the track, and went back to my steady, normal pace next to Sam.

He chuckled lightly. "Well, you certainly showed them," he remarked sarcastically. I grinned.

"Yes I did," I replied happily.

When we were finally done—it took _forever_ for Sam to run like three miles—we went inside, showered, and went back to our own business. I braided my hair and put on a dark red T-shirt and black capris, not bothering to wear shoes. I preferred being barefoot.

I went and found Steve. He was sitting on a sofa in a parlor, reading a newspaper, already showered and dressed. "You didn't tell me your friend the Winter Soldier was that kind of eye candy," I remarked, lounging on the sofa next to him casually.

"Well I didn't think you were interested in the former-brainwashed-assassin types," he replied.

"I don't really have a type," I retorted carelessly.

"Uh-huh. Sure." He took a deep breath and tilted his head back. "Hey Bucky! Chaos has a crush on you!" he shouted in a singsong voice.

I covered my face with my hands. "I hate you."

Steve shrugged. "I know."

At that moment, Bucky Barnes came out of a doorway to who-knows-where, wet hair dripping and only wearing a pair of jeans and some black combat boots. There was a towel in his hands and his upper body was glistening—except his left arm, which looked like it had just been dried or had never gotten wet at all. He'd probably just gotten out of the shower. There was also an amused smirk pulling up the corner of his mouth. "Do you really, Chaos? Didn't think I was your type," he commented. There was a totally shameless joke in his tone.

I sighed heavily. "I don't have a type," I repeated.

Bucky Barnes placed the towel on the doorknob and jumped over the back of the sofa, sitting solidly in between me and Steve. He looked me right in the eyes with a spark of humor to his entire being. I very pointedly kept my eyes on his, doing my utmost not to give him the satisfaction of looking down at his body—no matter how tempting that seemed.

Finally he smiled brightly. "Well then, I suppose I'll have to change that, won't I?"

"Meaning?" I edged.

"Steve, if you'd so kindly bring up that song you were listening to on your record player when I shot Director Fury," Bucky requested his best friend. My eyes widened. _What?!_

Cap chuckled and did as he was asked. _It's Been a Long, Long Time_ started drifting from the speakers as Bucky jumped back over the back of the couch and landed softly on the hardwood floor. He extended both hands out to me. I took them and let him help me over the back of the sofa.

"What's going on?" I asked.

Bucky shrugged. "It's been a long, _long_ time since I danced," he answered simply. He held my waist with his normal arm and my hand with his metal prosthetic. With a very strong grip he led me in a simple dance I didn't know how to do. I was pretty good on my feet—hello, I was a speedster!—but dancing was beyond my capabilities. I stumbled over my own toes several times in only a few seconds, but he didn't seem to mind.

I remembered Steve once telling me about Bucky—about how he oozed charm and charisma—and looking up at him right then I knew exactly what Rogers was talking about.

At the lyrics of the song, " _Kiss me once, then kiss me twice, then kiss me once again_ ," I was awarded a few light kisses on each eyelid and my forehead. To be honest, I was quite shocked. This was definitely not how I thought my day would go when I woke up that morning.

Steve was smiling over Bucky's shoulder, doing his best to pretend to be absorbed in his newspaper—and failing.

Bucky was staring at me, head tilted to the side. "It's okay, darling, I like you too."

He bit his lower lip and winked.

* * *

 **End Note: Yeah? Yeah? I loved this one. Huge thanks to Pinterest for inspiration!**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	44. Sleep Talk (SB)

**Author's Note: People on Tumblr keep asking me to write a part 2 to this one, but I have no inspiration for one. So, alas, it is only a one-shot. I hope you enjoy nonetheless. I'm not sure if this is a Steve X Character or a Bucky X Character. Oh well.**

 **44) Sleep Talk**

* * *

I woke up but didn't open my eyes. I could feel that I was in a flimsy bra and short shorts—that was it. I was under some blankets and laying on a comfortable mattress with my head on a pillow. I was on my left side—which was good, I preferred that one. When I bent my knees, I felt them brush something that was on top of the blankets and reveal I wasn't in my usual narrow twin-size bed.

My eyes flew open, taking in the gray quilt and the lighter gray wall. I recognized the design on the bedspread—heck, I picked it out—and felt confusion seep in. Slowly, I sat up and turned around to see what my toes had touched.

Bucky Barnes was lying shirtless in basketball shorts on the other half of the queen-size on his stomach, metal arm dangling off the edge. His head was facing me but he was sleeping.

 _How on Earth did I get here?_ I thought confusedly, looking around Bucky's room.

He started mumbling in his sleep—definitely not in English. I reached over and brushed a lock of his thick hair away from his face, careful not to touch his skin. He was a super light sleeper and he would probably attack me if I woke him up. As I tucked the lock behind his ear, I realized he was speaking Russian—which I knew. My eyes widened as he shuffled and took a deep breath before going back to muttering. I closed my eyes and listened to what he was saying.

 _"Don't make me! Please! I don't want to kill anyone else! Please! Stop! Don't make me, don't make me! I don't want to! Please!"_ he pleaded in Russian, creases forming on his forehead.

My blood ran cold in my veins, making my chest feel hollow.

He kept going on like that for several minutes, begging his HYDRA handlers or superiors to not make him kill an innocent person. I watched, my heart silently breaking for him, still not knowing how I ended up in his room in his bed, but not caring because my friend was in pain. But he slept so little anyway I didn't know if I had the heart to wake him up.

Then the creases of fear and pain vanished, leaving behind an angry set to his mouth and a murderous scrunch to his eyebrows. His head tilted upwards. Even though he was lying down he looked dangerous and powerful.

 _"Begging for your life won't make a difference to me!"_ he snapped angrily.

My blood ran even colder.

I wasn't sure which was worse.

There was a word before "difference", but I didn't know what it was—probably a swear-word.

I brushed my own sleep-wild hair out of my face and laid back down, this time on my right side, staring at him. We'd been good friends for a long time, and I'd never been sure if I was in love with him or not, but I hated seeing him like this. He was in so much pain, but he needed sleep.

But finally I think some assassin instinct alerted him to the fact that he was being stared at because his blue eyes snapped open. When his gaze focused on me, he relaxed in the face but I saw his body tense up. "Was I talking in my sleep again?" he asked urgently. Because I was pretty fluent in Russian, sometimes I forgot what language we were speaking in so it took me a moment to register the English. When I did I cast my eyes down to the pillows our heads were on.

"A bit," I admitted.

"What language?"

"Russian."

He closed his eyes and sighed. "What did I say?"

"Bucky…"

" _No._ You can't protect me from my own nightmares forever. _What did I say?_ " The last phrase was in angry Russian, almost like he hadn't realized he'd shifted.

"You started off by begging your handlers to not make you kill innocent people," I told him.

"And how did I end?"

"'Begging for your life won't make a difference to me'," I quoted, using the tone he had.

Bucky sighed heavily and just looked at me for a moment. "I'm sorry you had to go through listening to all that," he muttered. "I didn't think you'd be awake to hear me anytime soon."

"How did I end up in here, anyway?" I asked.

"You've been unconscious for three days. You caught some sort of sickness. Tony and Bruce have been looking for a cure or something but your fever is running high. One minute you were fine and the next you collapsed on the floor. Steve and I have been watching over you because our immune systems are stronger than everyone else's. Plus we produce more body heat than anyone else and you've been covered in gooseflesh since you passed out. We've been doing our best to keep you warm."

"Why not put me in my own bed?"

"We needed to keep watch on you all the time and hold you to keep you warm—it was just easier this way," he answered. I raised one eyebrow for a moment, but didn't say anything. That certainly explained why both of us were half-naked.

Bucky scooted closer to me as I shivered and put his arms around me. He was lying on his left side and I knew that was uncomfortable for him—it drove his metal into his skin and hurt. So I slipped out of the covers, over the top of him, and laid on the other side. He turned to keep up and curled his body around me.

I stayed snuggled into his front all day, letting him keep me warm. He felt really good.

I was nuzzled deep into his chest, curled up and feeling very content.

As nightfall came, Steve opened the door. He picked me up—me realizing that I couldn't stand on my own—and carried me in his arms towards his room. He set me down under the covers and did the same thing Bucky did. "I'm glad to see you're awake," he murmured.

"Thanks."

"Did Bucky… talk in his sleep?"

"Yeah—in Russian. He started pleading to not kill anyone else, and ended by scoffing that begging for your life won't make a difference."

Steve sighed as his body powered down. "It's getting worse."

"Is it?"

"Yeah. He used to mutter in English. He only ever talks in Russian when he's distressed."

"So what do we do?"

"Somehow calm him down. I just don't know how."

"We'll think of something."

"When you're better. For now just sleep. You'll feel better if you do." He stroked my hair until I blacked out.

* * *

 **End Note: Don't be afraid to tell me what you think/thought!**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	45. My Angel (B)

**Author's Note: Oh my gosh. Out of all the one-shots I've written in this collection, this one is** ** _definitely_** **one of my favorites. It has darkness and fluff and just... ooh! Fair warning there are a few mentions of blood.**

 **45) My Angel**

* * *

I curled my body around myself, shivering with cold. The room I was in was completely bare—I'd go so far as to call it a cell.

Pros of dating an Avenger: pretty much everything.

Cons of dating an Avenger: I get kidnapped by HYDRA.

The cold was so deep I felt like my bones had been turned into icicles. My hair hung limply around my head. I didn't know how long I'd been in the cell and they'd confiscated my watch when I was taken—which was super pointless. Like honestly, what was I gonna do with my watch? How was I supposed to bust out with it?

HYDRA were idiots.

I tucked my knees closer to my chest and closed my eyes, losing myself in memories to take me away from my situation.

The first time I told him I loved him was the first memory I surrounded myself in.

 _He chuckled lightly, without humor. "Angels don't fall in love with monsters, darling," he muttered. I gently put my hand out, brushing some of his dark hair away from his eyes to see them better. His blue eyes looked forlorn._

 _"It's a good thing I'm not an angel, then," I replied with a big grin._

 _He ran his fingers down my face. The tips were cold. I closed my eyes and leaned into his touch. "You_ **are** _an angel. You're_ **my** _angel," he murmured. His other hand moved to the back of my head and he tangled his fingers in my hair. I smiled and played with his hair for a moment. We were just sat on the floor, cross-legged, looking at each other. "You are my angel because you saved me. You were my salvation." And he kissed me. It was gentle and sweet, but also burning with passion underneath it. "But angels don't fall in love with monsters."_

 _"This one did."_

 _"I promised myself I wouldn't let you complete me. I guess I broke that promise." He smiled._

 _"It was a promise worthy of breaking." I'd never been very good at saying poetic things—that was always his job—but I felt in my heart what I was supposed to say._

Suddenly I heard a lot of commotion outside.

I sat up straighter but decided not to uncurl, holding in as much heat as possible. It sounded like a fight. There were screams, impacts, and gunshots ringing through the empty air. I could hear the sounds of men shouting, some calling for retreat, others for rallying. I held my knees tighter, shivering, looking up past my curtain of messy hair curiously. Gooseflesh was crawling all over my skin.

Then suddenly, through the din, there was uneasy silence.

And the door to my room/cell was ripped off its hinges.

"Bucky!" I breathed as I caught sight of the arm that did the ripping.

His face appeared from the darkness, covered in blood not his own, relief spreading over his features. He rushed into my cell, slid towards me on his knees, and put his normal hand on the side of my face. "Oh. My angel. You're okay," he whispered, kissing the cut on my forehead. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders. "I thought I'd lost you."

"Step away from her!" a voice ordered. I peered over his shoulder to see one of my captors glaring at Bucky.

A look I'd seen very rarely on him warped his face.

It was murder and revenge. Beyond anger. It was rage and blood.

It was the Winter Soldier.

He stood up, rifle already cocked and primed to shoot. With his back to me, I couldn't see his expression.

"You touch my girl again and I will kill _every **last**_ one of you," he growled.

His voice didn't even sound like him—nothing like the soft-hearted, charismatic young man who'd won my heart and watched Disney movies with me at three in the morning because he'd had a nightmare about losing me or Steve. He sounded like the cold-blooded assassin HYDRA had made him. I imagined the glare he was giving the man holding a handgun to him. It would be pure, unadulterated fury. His revenge was something to fear.

"You wouldn't dare," the man retorted.

I barely saw Bucky lick his lips—it was a gesture of danger. A threat. "Really?" he asked, eerily calm, hiding the surging storm inside him. "You made me into a _monster_. I have to live with that. If you hurt her again, though, and I will not hesitate to show you _exactly_ what I can do."

The rifle in his hand went off, piercing the captor in the right shoulder.

"And make sure you tell the others," Bucky spat.

He turned back to me and knelt, the last traces of the Winter Soldier fading from his eyes.

"Come on, angel. Steve's waiting for us outside."

"He didn't come in?"

"I asked him not to. I didn't want him to see me like this."

He slung the rifle over his back, looped his normal arm under my shoulders, and helped me up. I was so cold I could barely move. He had to help me more than my dignity cared to admit through the wreckage of what he'd done to those who'd stood in his way. I looked around at first, but seeing men literally _torn apart_ was a little too much for my sleep-deprived, hypothermic brain. So I looked away.

We got outside—and if possible, it was even colder. I sucked in a deep breath through my nose as fresh goosebumps sprouted over my entire body.

"She can barely walk, Buck," Steve remarked, watching me stagger out of the building. "Gimme the gun. I'll cover you two and you carry her." Before he'd even gotten any of that sentence out the rifle was already in his hands and Bucky had swung me up into his arms. "Oh," the captain remarked.

I curled as close to Bucky as I could, trying to ignore the fact that I could feel how _freezing_ his metal arm was through the fabric of my trousers—it was like having my joints bent over a cylinder of ice.

"Just stay with me, my angel. We'll get you home. I promise," he whispered. "I love you."

"I love you."

* * *

 **End Note: GAH!**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	46. Tension (B)

**Author's Note: Lotta people thought this one was pretty good. I had so much fun writing it.**

 **46) Tension**

* * *

For absolutely no reason whatsoever, Bucky Barnes and I didn't get along. Ever. We fought _all the time_. It was probably because he was trying really hard to get everyone to like him and I was kind of confrontational and didn't believe yet that he was entirely back. I still thought he was part Winter Soldier.

This was one such day.

We were arguing deeply about our last mission, in which I was shouting that he made the wrong call in choosing when to snipe and he was shouting that I didn't have the war experience he did and therefore had no authority to be commenting on his decisions.

The rest of the team had abandoned us the moment we'd gotten home. We'd fought most of the entire jet ride and kept going. We were both sweaty and tired, but our anger made us forget.

"This isn't war, Barnes! This is espionage!" I spat.

"It doesn't matter if it's not war! You don't know what you're talking about!" he snapped.

"I know exactly what I'm talking about! You're supposed to be Mr. Clandestine, best assassin ever and you march into this with the wrong mindset! You were thinking like a soldier not a spy! You could have jeopardized everything we went in for!" I was red in the face and could feel my eyes burning, like I was going to cry sometime soon. _Oh no. Please don't let that happen. Not in front of him,_ I thought desperately, angrily fighting down my emotions.

"You are so immature!"

"I hate you!" I finally shouted.

"I hate you too!" he retorted.

I'm not sure which of us started it, but I had my hands in fists in the front of his shirt and his were pushing me back before getting tangled in my messy, matted hair. My mouth was all over his my back hit a wall as he pushed again.

It was the most aggressive make out session I'd ever had.

At some point his shirt vanished into a corner and mine got tangled around my ankles. He was in the skintight black tank top he wore under just about everything and I was in my sports bra and gray camisole.

We were so lost in each other that our frustration seemed to peter out.

I had my head leaned back dangerously far in order to reach his much taller head and he used my position to his advantage, trailing his lips all the way down to my throat.

"I still hate you," he murmured.

"Good," I replied with a grin, grabbing his head and bringing his mouth back to mine. "I hate you too."

Suddenly we heard snickering from off to the side and saw a flash of light.

With a suction noise we pulled away from each other and turned to see Natasha leaned against the doorframe with her phone in her hand. "No, no. Don't stop for me," she remarked. "Just know the rest of us have had an ongoing bet about when you two were going to aggressively make out against a wall. You two have had so much tension there was no way it _wasn't_ going to happen. And long story short Tony owes me a thousand bucks." With a cackle she took off down the hall, shouting, "Hey TONY!"

Bucky, with his hands on the wall, trapping me in place, hissed a breath past his teeth. "Can I shoot her?" he seethed.

"No," I decided.

"Why not?"

"Because the last time you shot her she still managed to shoot an RPG at you."

"That was _one time_ when I was _brainwashed_. It's different now!" he protested.

"You can't shoot Natasha," I reaffirmed.

"Please—"

"Don't. You'll turn this into another fight."

" ** _I_** will?" he demanded.

"We both will," I conceded. "And I'm so sick of fighting you."

"So am I. But just so we're clear, I still hate you."

"Good because I still hate you too."

And I pulled him back towards me by the shoulders. His elbows bent near my sides and his face collided with mine—not in an unpleasant way. I closed my eyes and leaned into his skin—cold from exposure to the air-conditioned atmosphere of the Tower. He sighed through his nose, the air fluttering my eyelashes. I copied him and slid my hands over his powerful back.

Then there was whistling from the doorway. I didn't even bother to turn to look as Bucky's spine snapped ramrod straight and his arms dropped away from the wall. "Well, I can't say I didn't see this coming," Steve commented. "I'll leave you to it."

The moment his best friend was gone, Bucky closed the door and locked it. He snared both arms around me, twisted to he was the one against the wall, and leaned back in.

I didn't hesitate to go right for his mouth.

* * *

 **End Note: :-D**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	47. Kill Machine (B)

**Author's Note: I wrote this one whilst going through some** ** _major_** **writer's block. Sorry if it kind of sucks.**

 **47) Kill Machine**

* * *

I woke up at three in the morning, gasping loudly, covered in cold sweat. In seconds I was in black cargo pants and a leather jacket. Not even caring that my hair was a mess, I rushed from my room at the New Avengers Facility and ran to the garage, snagging keys on the way. Steve wouldn't mind if I borrowed his motorcycle during the middle of the night. I'd done it before.

When I made it to the garage, I saw I wasn't alone.

"Trouble sleeping?" I asked, almost jokingly.

Dark hair framing a pale face and bright blue eyes turned up to me. A tiny smirk quirked up his lips. "Something like that," Barnes muttered. He was on a roller-thing under one of the cars, tinkering curiously, probably wondering how everything worked.

I crossed the garage and sat next to him, leaned back against the car. "Wanna go out for a ride with me? It's quite calming."

"You had a nightmare." It wasn't a question.

"How'd you guess?" I joked.

"I've heard you leave on that motorcycle more than once at strange hours of the night and morning."

"You don't sleep well either." That wasn't a question from me. "Come ride with me."

"I'll drive. I know you've driven that bike a lot. But I wanna do it if I'm coming along." He slid out from under the car, face smudged with oil, normal hand out with his palm up. I sighed and tossed the motorcycle keys in the air. His hand snapped out and closed around them. "Alright, let's go then." Without saying another word he pushed himself to his feet and put on his own one-armed leather jacket that I hadn't noticed sitting on the hood of the car.

I got on the back of the Harley behind Bucky, wrapping my arms around his waist and splaying my hands over his powerful chest. He kicked the bike to life. The engine roared through the empty, echoing garage. Bucky surged the thing out of the garage, not wearing a helmet even though I was.

He drove far more recklessly than Steve or I did. It was thrilling. I liked it.

We finally pulled over on a scenic overlook. "What was your nightmare about? Wanna talk about it?" he asked.

I leaned against the bike and sighed heavily. "It was just a nightmare about things that have come before. If you think your past is dark, Barnes, wait till Romanoff tells you about mine," I remarked. Bucky scoffed and looked down at me.

"I was a mindless killing machine for the past seventy years with ten planned ways to kill anyone. How can yours be worse than that?"

"Your history was largely political." I licked my lips in thought. "Mine was personal."

"What?"

"What do you remember about being the Winter Soldier?"

"Not much since DC. I haven't been wiped since then. Sometimes I get fragments. Images. Feelings."

"I remember everything. In vivid detail. I remember every scream. Every splatter of blood. Every victim _begging_ me not to kill them—not to destroy everything and everyone they love. Every bullet. I was a relentless murderess. You had ten ways to kill someone? You shaped the century. Killed to shift the balance of power. I had at least fifteen. With every victim. Killed for revenge and vengeance not my own." I liked my lips. "I won't go any deeper. Wait for Romanoff to tell you."

"Why not you?"

"I've been burying those memories too long to drag them out now. The only time I look back on them is during my nightmares."

"Why'd you stop that life?"

"Guilt finally caught up with me."

"You're like eighteen."

I snorted. "I'm actually twenty-one. I've just been twenty-one for the past fifty years. I don't age. I don't die. And every day I have to live with the memories of all the destruction I've caused." I snorted without humor. "That's why I'm here, you know. People are after me and I had very few options that wouldn't get me killed."

"And I thought it was because you had a crush on Steve," Bucky joked.

The noise of humor that ripped from my throat did not sound remotely dignified. "Nah. Not Steve. He's too… patriotic for me. I understand his ideals—I really do—but I've always been a bit more flexible when it comes to country loyalties."

"So then, anyone else 'round here you interested in?" He was trying to distract both of us from our nightmares, I knew that, but it made me grin nonetheless.

"Well… that speedster's pretty dang handsome and I could totally have a life with Thor's sassy little brother," I commented, not caring that I was probably being hugely shallow—he suggested it! "But the only person I've connected to in any sort of way deeper than skin has been… you." I had a shrug in my voice, knowing that I was admitting something an ex-assassin would never say out loud. We were above emotions for the most part. Trained to not feel. But I hadn't been an assassin for around fifteen years. My emotions had slowly eased back into my system—even though I could turn them off and become Kill Machine again in about a half-second to do whatever needed to be done. "You have more in common with me than anyone else on the team." I stared out over the overlook while feeling my face flush. I wasn't supposed to be admitting this.

"Oh? And how interested are you in me?" he asked flirtatiously.

Steve had once told me Bucky had once been quite the ladies' man back in the day. I could see why.

I shrugged, feeling my brain shutting out my emotions. "Not sure. Haven't delved too deep into my own feelings. I'm afraid to open them too wide. What happens if they get ripped apart?" I meant for my tone to be nonchalant, but it raised in pitch and quivered—showing that there was some fear inside me. I was afraid of rejection, just like everyone else. Usually I was just better at hiding it.

Bucky wrapped his skin arm around my shoulders. "Then you'd just have to find someone to help you stitch them back together," he commented.

Every muscle in my body went rigid. He was opening up and being kind to me.

Nothing like the time I'd battled him as the Winter Solder about five years ago.

Of course, given what he just said about his past as the Winter Soldier, he probably didn't remember that we ever fought at all, but that had been the best fight I'd ever had. He'd been able to match me move-for-move. And that had never happened before.

I had absolutely loved it.

"I suppose," I muttered.

"But really, how interested?" he pushed.

I smirked. "Interested enough that I would _definitely_ go on a date with you. Maybe two if Steve needed a couple to double with."

He squeezed his grip around my shoulders, smiling lopsidedly. "Well, it's three-AM and we're both lonely. Let's be lonely together," he commented. I raised my eyebrows as his skin arm slid to the back of my head and his metal arm took my back around my waist. I thought about resisting—about breaking his arm or his face—but some nagging sensation in the back of my head held back that reaction. So I tilted up onto my tiptoes, leaned my head to the side—

And _collision_.

I'm just joking. It was quite soft. He was a very gentle kisser—I assumed it came from coming from the nineteen-forties when men were gentlemen and women were ladies. Heck, I was from the sixties so I was almost from their time. I'd just never really known how to be a lady because I was a freaking international assassin.

Unbidden and against my conscious will, my hands slid up into his overlong hair. _What are you doing? You are Kill Machine, not some love-sick schoolgirl!_ I snapped inside my head.

But I kept kissing him.

 _If his past is dark, wait till he sees yours—and realizes how warped your soul is when it's laid bare in front of him. See if he'll love you then._ That was my old handler's voice talking—the woman who had been in charge of my every move for thirty years. She'd instilled a lot of fear in me that I'd had to learn how to bury.

But I internally laughed at her. I would never be able to run away from Kill Machine. She'd always be a part of me.

But Bucky knew the feeling. We shared a strange sort of bond—the kind guilt-ridden assassins tend to form I suppose—and he'd be the one who would accept my past for everything it was. Or, at least, I hoped so. If he didn't, that'd be okay too.

Despite the fact that we were hollowed-out weapons, we were still both human.

* * *

 **End Note: Yeah...**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	48. Ready (B)

**Author's Note: Bucky in a bowtie was something I couldn't, and didn't want to, resist. (It has nothing to do with how attractive Sebastian Stan looks in a bowtie, I assure you.) MMMmmmmmmmm. That's all.**

 **48) Ready**

* * *

"Are you ready yet?" I demanded, pulling my hair out of my necklace and zipping up the back of my dress. I gave the bathroom door a glare.

"Why do I have to wear a tie? It's like a noose that I've tied around my own neck! I'm practically hanging myself! All someone has to do is grab it and pull!" Bucky called. I rolled my eyes and knocked on the door. He opened it, looking agitated.

"Then don't wear a tie, dummy. Wear a bowtie." I pulled his black silk bowtie off the dresser and showed it to him. "It's harder to grab and use as a weapon on someone else's side. You could yank it off in a moment and make a garrote with it." I looked him up and down, being very obvious about my movements because if he thought I was checking him out in a threatening way he'd probably attack me. Black shirt, jacket, slacks, shoes, and tie. "You wore a tie with your army uniform way back when, you know. But even with that tie, you look _handsome_."

He glanced me up and down in my dress. "You look beautiful."

I untied his tie, slid it off, and put his bowtie on. "Thank you," I whispered, on tiptoe, dangerously close to his lips.

"How about we just don't go to Tony's gala and stay here?" he asked, eyebrows scrunching, looking down at me with his bright blue eyes. "How about we just… stay…" He trailed off as he leaned down and gave me a kiss.

"We promised him we'd go." To punctuate my point, said billionaire texted Bucky's phone at that exact moment, asking where we were. I pulled the phone out of his inner jacket pocket, read it, and showed it to him. "See? He's waiting for us." Bucky took the phone from my hand with his metal one in order to read it.

After a moment, he crushed it in his Vibranium fist and tossed it over his shoulder.

"Let's just stay here. We never get a minute alone."

I brushed his hair back into alignment. "We promised."

His normal arm was snared around my waist. "I know. But I'm an international assassin. We're not exactly known for keeping promises," he whispered, lips brushing my ear, sending shivers up and down my spine. I shuddered and buried my face in his neck. _Oh my gosh. Maybe we should just stay here…_ I thought to myself as he left a trail of light kisses down my jawbone. "C'mon. Let's just stay…" He rested his lips against my collarbone and kissed it.

I pushed him away very abruptly. " _No!_ We promised Tony we'd go and he expects you to be there to show that you're healed and you've got an awesome prosthetic. He's throwing this whole gala for you since the verdict of the trial was Not Guilty."

"But when that happened I didn't have you to keep me company," he complained.

"James Buchanan Barnes. No. We're going!"

He moaned in complaint into my skin. "But—"

"We don't have to stay the whole time. Let's just go so Steve doesn't get suspicious that something's up."

"Please," Bucky scoffed, straightening up abruptly. "I dated all the time back in the forties! It's not like he's going to object now!"

I raised one eyebrow. "He might," I remarked.

"Why?"

"Because it's me. I don't know if you've noticed but he and I don't exactly get along." I was barely listening to what I was saying—I was too distracted by his cold metal hand pressed against my bare back between my shoulder blades. I leaned my head back, the few curled wisps of hair escaping my up-do brushing over the Vibranium.

"Who cares what he thinks, doll? He may not realize it, but I'm stronger than him."

I sighed heavily into the fabric of his suit, nuzzling his chest, breathing in his cologne. "I don't want you to fight him for me. I'm not worth it and that's obvious to everyone. I'm just a kid from Brooklyn," I remarked.

"Sometimes being a kid from Brooklyn is exactly what makes you worth it."

"I'm not going to be the one to jeopardize your relationship with Steve. Not after he spent so long tracking you down. I'm not going to do it. It's not going to be my fault that your friendship with him is ruined. Now let's go." I took his hand and tugged him towards the front door. After a moment he relented and came after me.

Until we reached the door. Then he snared an arm around my waist. "Are you _sure_ you don't want to stay?" he entreated, holding me close possessively. "Just you… and me… all night?" He gave me a gentle kiss on my nose.

"I'm sure. We just have to be fancy for one night. Then we can go back to shorts and tank tops. I _promise_." I opened the door and pulled him out.

He tilted his head back. _"Fine!"_ And he came after me. "But tomorrow night we're wearing pajamas and watching a Disney movie."

Giggling, I turned around and kissed his jaw. "I wouldn't dream of anything else."

* * *

 **End Note: Just sayin', the internet in my apartment is absolutely terrible, so I had to re-write the A/N about eight times because it wouldn't save.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	49. Tinkering (B)

**Author's Note: I don't really have much to say!**

 **49) Tinkering**

* * *

Since Pepper had become Tony's girlfriend and the CEO of Stark Industries, Tony had needed a new assistant. So he called on me—his niece—to fill in the position until he could find someone who actually _wanted_ it.

I had a bad habit of staying up late, watching Netflix. It was around two in the morning when I slid out of my bed in his mansion—two floors away from him and Pepper's room so I couldn't hear their cuddling coos all night—to go get a glass of water and put my popcorn bowl away. I walked slowly up the stairs until I made it to the kitchen. I opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle. Turning around, I moved to close the door.

I froze.

The man had overlong hair that was dark brown, stubble, and blue eyes that looked lost. He was sitting on a stool at the counter, left arm at his side. He was staring at me.

"Bucky?" I asked.

He hadn't been seen or heard from since SHIELD was compromised. Why did he come out now?

The international assassin held his left arm out to me. "I don't know how to fix it myself."

The Vibranium prosthetic had some damage to the surface that probably ran deeper.

I set my water bottle down and approached carefully. Then I hesitated.

"I won't hurt you. Please. I don't know how to fix it."

So I took the last few steps closer and gently ran my finger over the metal. "Come downstairs with me," I said. "To the workshop. I'll try to fix it." I held out my hand. "It'll be okay. I won't hurt you either." I was a decent engineer/mechanic, but I should have probably woken my uncle.

Then I remembered that this was the man who more than likely killed my grandparents Howard and Maria. My uncle would react worse than I would.

It was up to me.

He took my hand and let me lead him silently down the stairs. Just off from the workshop was my bedroom, so I knew the area well. I flicked on the lights and grabbed a box of precision tools. "Sit there," I instructed, pointing to a chair. He did as I asked with more than a little reservation. I sat on a higher stool next to his arm and pulled out a few tools, including a magnifying glass. "Okay," I remarked. "It could be better. But it could be worse. What did you do to it?"

"It got caught in a vice that nearly crushed it," he answered. His voice was soft-spoken and broken. I put my hand on his metal shoulder to hold it still.

"Well, it's not going to be an easy fix, but at the very least it _is_ fixable."

I tinkered with it for a few minutes before setting my mind to work. I put my special JARVIS contacts in my eyes and the earpiece in my ear so that he could show me things my eyes were missing. Every so often the assassin would wince. I licked my lips and bit my lower one in concentration, lifting up my first precision tool.

"Hey kiddo?" Uncle Tony's voice started from the top of the stairs. "Why is the light on? Are you still up?" I turned to see his feet descending, eyes widening. I put the tool behind my back as his head became visible. "What are you doing in the shop on your own at this hour?" he asked.

Confused, I glanced behind me.

Bucky Barnes wasn't there.

Huh.

I shrugged. "I just couldn't sleep. I was watching Netflix but I got bored so I walked around to get my feet to not fall asleep," I lied. I'd always been a terrible liar. But thankfully he didn't notice.

"Go to bed, kid," he remarked, starting to go back up the stairs.

"Night Uncle Tony!"

"Night!"

The moment he was gone the Winter Soldier reappeared like a ghost. "I'm sorry. I don't want any of them to see me," he murmured as I picked up my magnifying glass. I shook my head.

"You don't have to apologize."

"Yes I do. About a lot of things. The least of which being I killed your grandparents while I was brainwashed."

I shook my head. "I never knew them so I never felt their loss. But I'm one of the only people who will _try_ to understand what you're dealing with and going through—even though I'm nowhere _near_ qualified to do so. The others won't bother to try—except Steve he doesn't count. So don't be sorry to me. Talk. Say whatever. I'm here. I'm working on your arm. I'm willing to listen."

He chuckled. "You're definitely not the woman I thought you'd be."

I shrugged and resumed working on his arm. "People say that a lot about me."

"Why?"

"It's not like I _try_ to be unconventional. I just… _am_. I can't help that I'm not like other people."

"Thank you for not being like them. I just…" He gestured vaguely to where I was tinkering with his arm. "Someone needed to fix it. And I couldn't do it."

"Don't worry about it. I got this."

Quietly, I worked on his arm for two hours. When it was four in the morning we finally called it a night.

"I'll finish it tomorrow after Tony and Pepper go to the company for their very important meeting," I promised, turning off the workshop light and making my way back to my bedroom. The former assassin stood silently in the darkness before I saw him nod.

"Thank you for your help, Miss Stark."

"No problem. It was my pleasure."

The next morning, Tony and Pepper were gone by the time I woke up. When I went upstairs into the kitchen, the Winter Soldier was sitting at the table with a bowl of cereal across the table from him, a glass of chocolate milk and a small toolbox in front of it. "Thought I could make you breakfast in return for helping me out," he said quietly. I raised my eyebrows.

"How very… thoughtful," I commented.

I ate quickly and then went back to fixing his arm. I didn't care that my hair was a mess and I probably looked like death. I didn't care that my uncle could walk in at any moment and see what was happening—at least it wasn't like that one time he caught me making out with my high school sweetheart when I wasn't even at his house. I didn't care that I wasn't reacting the way that a normal person should to seeing an international assassin in their kitchen. Heck, I didn't care that I didn't care!

That freaking arm was a challenge. And I liked challenges.

I also just liked tinkering.

After a while I cleared my throat. "I… I think it's done."

* * *

 **End Note: Yeah, this one was written during some writer's block. May not be the best I've ever done...**

 **Thank you for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	50. Not All Bad (B)

**Author's Note: WOW! Fifty! I'd say "I never though we'd make it" but honestly I'm not very shocked.**

 **50) Not All Bad**

* * *

I always made sure to walk on Bucky's left side and loop my arm through his so no one would bump into his prosthetic. The _one time_ I don't hold onto him is the one time I end up getting hit on.

Of course I wasn't surprised. We lived in Manhattan. I was wearing a form-fitting T-shirt and skinny jeans. I wore what I did because Bucky liked it—but it also brought on several catcalls whether I was alone or not.

"Hey sweetheart, you come here often?" came most men's shouts from across the road or a few feet down the sidewalk. I'd jab my elbow into Bucky's side to keep him from punching every single guy that did it. He'd roll his eyes and give me a look. I'd just hold his arm tighter, give the stranger a deathly but sweet glare, and reply, "No. I don't. But thanks for asking!" My eyes would flash bright red as part of my color-based powers and it would scare most guys off.

Today was no different. "Wassup dear? You single?" asked a man I'd never seen before.

It looked like I was for a moment before Bucky swooped in like a bloody hawk. "Yeah. She's definitely single. What with the way I kiss her and hold hands with her _every day_. But by all means keep hitting on her. I'll hit your face if you do," he snapped dangerously. For a moment my good guy was wavering, the Winter Soldier edging on his consciousness.

"Bucky, relax," I hissed, grabbing his normal arm so he could feel it.

"You shouldn't have to put up with this type of crap everyday when we walk in the streets," he muttered as I dragged him away from the shocked-looking guy who'd dared flirt with me.

"I grew up here. I've seen it happen all the time. It bothers me to a certain extent but it's New York City. I don't like being catcalled any more than any other woman but it's not something I can exactly control. Even if I wasn't wearing your favorite outfit to see me in, men would hit on me."

"That's not fair to you, or any other woman."

"We know. But not all men are you." Yes, I had a very strong opinion and hidden rage boiling under my skin every time I was catcalled in the street. Yes, I agreed with him on everything he said. But I had to brush it off, remain calm, make it sound like it didn't matter to me, to make sure he didn't go insane, lose his mind, and turn back into the Winter Soldier.

I pulled on his arm, dragging him far away. He was still glaring daggers at the man who'd dared insult his girlfriend's honor. He was seething so I figured we wouldn't make it to our lunch date. Because of that I started tugging him in the direction of the Avengers Tower. "Where are you taking me?" he asked, suddenly bewildered. "I thought we were going to lunch at that café you love that has the muffins and the cocoa."

"We were—but you got annoyed with a catcaller and I had to intervene before you started spewing Russian obscenities at him and ripping him apart," I replied carefully.

"No. No. We need to go to lunch. I promised you I'd take you to lunch at that café with the muffins and the cocoa," he protested. I sighed, took his arm, and shrugged. He grinned. "Right then, my dear doll, let's get going to lunch."

"Promise the Winter Soldier won't make an appearance?" I teased.

He sighed. "I promise." I raised my eyebrows skeptically. "I'm fine. Honestly."

"You sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. I just get irritated when men flirt with you and I'm not allowed to punch them."

"Who said you're not allowed to punch catcallers?"

"Steve."

"Pssh! Steve can kiss my foot. It's not like _reckless_ is his middle name or anything."

That made Bucky laugh and I saw the last vestiges of the Winter Soldier fade from his face—we were far enough away from that guy that he was distracted. "Fair point. That kid was born so full of 'Fight me' I'm surprised sometimes that he survived long enough to get the super-soldier serum," he commented. Internally I felt my body relax. He was going to be okay.

The only downside to dating Bucky Barnes was managing his grip on his mind.

"Well, he had you to watch out for him," I remarked.

Bucky chuckled. "True. But enough about Steve. We've talked about him plenty enough since we met. It's time for us to talk about us."

I grinned. This guy was hilarious and I was so fortunate to be with him. "Okay."

He held the door to the café open for me. "Ask me anything and everything. I'll only hold back if the Winter Soldier threatens to make an appearance," he instructed. I raised my eyebrows. I'd never been given an invitation _that_ open before.

Every question I'd ever had about him wiped from my mind at that moment though.

So I defaulted. "What's your favorite color?"

"Green," he answered as he sat down next to me in the booth instead of across from me and wrapped his arm around my shoulders. "But it has to be a dark green. Not lime. Lime is juvenile and bright. Dark green is rich and deep. It reminds me of forests and grass and the leaves on the trees in the summertime. What's your favorite color?"

"Blue. But a sort of pale blue that surrounds black and glitters with mirth and humor."

Bucky started laughing. "That is the most clichéd way anyone has ever described eyes ever."

"I was talking about your eyes," I retorted sassily. "What was being experimented on like? How badly did it hurt?"

"It was like I was burning from the inside out and there was no escape. It was awful. But… in all honesty… I've made my peace with it. Whatever happened to me then made me strong enough to survive till now—and because of that I met you." He kissed my temple. "And that's worth it."

"How did you meet Steve?"

I was rewarded a nonchalant shrug. "We were in middle school. He picked a fight, I pushed him out of the way and took one of the punches myself. We just sort of stuck together after that. I felt so bad for him at first. He was so small and sickly—it was almost pathetic. I'd always been fit and then there was him. I couldn't just stand by and watch him get beat up."

"How much peace have you made with the fact that you can't feel anything with your left hand? I mean, hands are one of the most sensitive places on the entire body—" I cut myself off as a shadow passed over his face. "You know what? Never mind."

He shook his head. "No. It's okay," he reassured me. "Sometimes I feel a little bit thrown off—like when I put my hand on the wall and I can't appreciate the sensation of the brick—but I've made my peace with my arm too." He squeezed me with his normal arm tighter around the shoulders. "But I still have my other hand—and my lips. And without doubt those are the _most_ sensitive place on my body." He tilted my head up with his metal hand and gave me a kiss. "So it's not all bad."

* * *

 **End Note: Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	51. Romanian Report (B)

**Author's Note: This one may not be my favorite, but I did enjoy it because it was fun.**

 **51) Romanian Report**

* * *

"Agent Howell!"

I snapped to attention. "Director Fury!" He was accompanied by a somewhat familiar man.

"Agent Howell, do you have something against filing your paperwork properly?"

"No," I lied.

"Then explain this." He held up my last mission report in his left hand. I glanced it over.

"Everything appears to be in order, sir."

"Then why is it in Romanian?"

"I was a deep-cover agent in Romania for a long time, sir. Sometimes I get confused. I apologize."

"Really? Because Sergeant Barnes here _knows_ Romanian," Fury commented. A string of bad words ran through my head. "He says the entire thing is translated Fall Out Boy lyrics." I choked on air and gave the soldier behind him a deathly glare, eyes narrowing. All he did was give me a charismatic smile, a nod, turn around, and walk away.

"Excuse me for a moment, sir," I muttered to Fury, edging around him and following the other man. When I was in a corridor alone with Sergeant Barnes, I threw him against the wall with all of my considerable strength and pressed my arm against his throat, my other one holding his metal arm against the wall. He looked shocked that I had the power to put on this show. "Really, Barnes?" I demanded. "Fall Out Boy? Do you even know who they are?"

He shrugged. "Of course. They're the band you're always listening to—even though it's always the same four songs."

I backed away from him quite suddenly. "How do you—?"

Another shrug. "I can hear it leaking through your earbuds sometimes. One day I looked up the lyrics and found out who the songs were performed by."

"Why tell Fury? My report was all correct, just in Romanian."

I got a charismatic smile from the sergeant. "I wanted to see how well you operate under pressure." He winked at me. "Mind if I ask why you wrote it in Romanian?" he asked cheekily. I glared at him for a moment before it was my turn to shrug.

"I think reports are boring and sometimes downright redundant. Sometimes I like to spice mine up," I answered.

He chuckled. "I understand that. I submitted a mission report once in Sokovian—it was all Styx lyrics. No one noticed because no one spoke Sokovian and they all believed me when I said everything was accurate to the best of my knowledge. It was great."

I snorted. "So why put me in the spotlight?"

"You're not quite like the other agents. Your mind seems to operate differently than anyone else's around here. I wanted to see how it operates under pressure from the director."

"Why?"

"The Avengers want some… fresh meat to join them in the Tower. Forgive the terminology—that was just how Tony put it. They're getting cabin fever with each other and want someone new to… 'spice things up'. And I wanted someone who was different from the other people on the planet. You're the only one so far who fits the bill."

I rolled my eyes. "You're so full of crap, Barnes," I snapped. "I'm the exact same as everyone else. I just submitted my report in Romanian and you thought it was weird so you called me out on it to taunt me in front of Fury by saying it was all Fall Out Boy lyrics."

The man hesitated before replying. "Perhaps a bit. But you really aren't quite the same. You stand out."

"Why?"

"You listen to Fall Out Boy."

I raised one eyebrow. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"No one else listens to Fall Out Boy. No one else listens to music while they work. Please, just come live with the Avengers for a week or two. You managed to keep your head on your shoulders and kept your calm when Fury was breathing down your neck. That's impressive. You'll be able to remain calm when Tony blows something up." I snorted. "I'm serious, _Agent Howell_. I'm not one for joking about something like this. Please just come for a little while."

"I have enough on my plate."

"I'll help you pull endless pranks on Tony and Steve."

Okay. Now _that_ was what I'd call enticing.

I licked my lips in thought, staring at his blue eyes.

Finally I removed my arm from his throat and my grip from his prosthetic. "One week and you're explaining to Fury why I disappeared."

"You went to a Fall Out Boy concert. Done."

I rolled my eyes. "What's with you and assuming I'm obsessed with Fall Out Boy? I've only heard the four of their songs I listen to. Now **_Imagine Dragons_** on the other hand…" I grinned to myself.

"You know, doll-face, you may find you like living with us. Maybe you'll move in."

"Highly doubt it."

"Go pack up your bunk. I'll go talk to Fury."

I smirked, rolled my eyes, and did as he said. I didn't like following orders, but endless pranks on Tony Stark and Steve Rogers was too good of an opportunity for a girl like me to pass up. When I was a teenager I was a huge Avengers fangirl—though I never did cosply outside the Tower—and I was still curious about them. What was this strange domestic life going to be like? And why was the Winter Soldier interested in me?

* * *

 **End Note: Yeah. This one was pretty fun!**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	52. 319 (B)

**Author's Note: I love this one.**

 **52) 319**

* * *

"Bucky, don't," Captain America warned his dark-haired companion—who had taken a step closer to me. "That girl is dangerous." I was huddled in a ball in the corner, holding my bleeding leg. The bullet wound on my calf was burning.

The dark-haired one, Bucky, rolled his eyes as I watched them through a curtain of limp, uncared-for hair hanging on either side of my face. "Is a knife dangerous, Steve?" he asked sarcastically, taking a wickedly-sharp silver dagger out of its holster on the small of his back and spinning it around his fingers. From under his cowl-helmet, Captain America watched his companion's practiced movements as he toyed with the blade.

"In the right hands, yes," he answered, warily eyeing the flashing silver.

Bucky smiled. "Exactly. She's no more dangerous than this knife." He knelt in front of me and took his jacket off, wrapping it around my shoulders. "What's your name?" he asked gently.

"Three-one-nine," I muttered, voice shaking. The dark-haired one winced.

"That's not a name, that's a number," Bucky muttered. "What do you wanna be called?"

I gave a tiny, shivering shrug. "I don't know. I've always been three-one-nine."

He wrapped up my wound in a bandage and picked me up in his arms. "Well, we'll figure out a name for you on the way home," he decided. The star-spangled captain watched carefully as his friend took me away. I could sense his distrust without even needing to use any sort of innate skill or anything else—I didn't have any sort of innate skill but the glare the super soldier was giving me was pretty obvious.

How could he not tell I meant no harm? I was bleeding, exhausted, in pain, weak, and in no shape to do anything. Yes, I was tortured and experimented on by some faceless organization. Yes, that torturing and experimentation gave me a strange set of super-human powers. But _no_ , I wasn't going to cause death and destruction on them.

I could. But I wouldn't.

Bucky carried me gently to a strange aircraft—that some part of my mind whispered was called a Quinjet—and set me on a seat. He took his jacket off my shoulders and wrapped me up in a blanket. "How about Sage?" he asked with a grin.

I shook my head.

"Rebecca? Sarah?"

I shook my head again. Captain America followed us into the cargo hold and a man in a purple T-shirt started the thing up. "Where'd you pick up this stray?" he asked. I didn't have the energy to glare.

"Bucky found her curled up in a corner without a name or anything," the captain answered.

"She doesn't have a name?!" the man in purple demanded while the aircraft lifted from the ground.

"Nope," Bucky ground out through clenched teeth. "Tell them what you're called."

"Three-one-nine," I mumbled quietly.

"A number? She has a number. That's just human cruelty," the man in purple muttered angrily.

"Yes, go ahead, Clint, take his side," Captain America snapped.

"I'm not taking either of your sides. I'm a father. I have a daughter. I'm on the girl's side," Clint retorted. "So what's a name you like, kid? Jessie? Elizabeth?" No one spoke to me when I was in that cell so I was very unused to have any sort of attention focused on me. I looked up, confused and silent, to the piercing blue eyes of Bucky and shook my head.

"She doesn't like either one, Clint," he supplied.

It was weird how comfortable I felt around him even though I'd just met him. He was the only one who had shown any sort of kindness to me since I woke in the warehouse with blank memories and surrounded by doctors and scientists.

"Okay. How about Felicity? Or Rachel?"

Another head shake.

"Nope!"

Steve was watching me from across the cargo bay curious and cautiously.

"I won't hurt you," I whispered. "I didn't want any of this."

Bucky looked down at me, having probably been the only one to hear my whisper and noticed me staring at the captain. He repeated my words louder.

Captain America raised his eyebrow. "I can't know that yet," he remarked. "A nameless girl with undefined powers randomly showing up in the building that we raided. I have to suspect you're a plant of some sort." I winced at his words, curling my knees up to my chest. Bucky wrapped an arm around my shoulders and held me close to his chest, giving his best friend a look that just looked like he was trying to communicate a very sarcastic _Really?_ Though I knew he thought Steve had a point because his metallic arm was resting on the hilt of one of his many, _many_ knives. He was taking precautions against me just like the captain was.

"So do you like the name… Cassie? Or… Katherine?"

I shook my head.

"What about Natalie?" Clint called from the cockpit.

I learned later he had a friend who often went by the name Natalie when she was undercover—and I looked like her or something and that was why he thought of it.

My hands lit up, casting their glow onto my eyes. I grinned and nodded. There was something about that name that just felt… right. Like maybe it had been mine before I was 319 or something. I wasn't sure what it was. But there was a comfort in the roll of the syllables. A familiarity. Like the warm blanket wrapped around my shoulders.

"Alright," Bucky remarked, grinning and stroking my hair out of my eyes. "Natalie it is."

* * *

 **End Note: The number is part of my Tumblr URL in case anyone's wonderin' where the random came from.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	53. Laser Tag War (B)

**Author's Note: It's been a while. Sorry! I've been swamped! But I love this one and I hope you guys enjoy it! It's about twice as long as usual!**

 **53) Laser Tag War**

* * *

"Tony. This has 'bad idea' spelled all over it," I remarked. "A laser tag war? You know Barnes and Barton are going to destroy all of us! They're the best marksman and the best sniper in the world! We don't stand a chance!" When the billionaire just kept giving me a really dumb grin, I realized something. "You've put them on different teams. They're going to just be trying to snipe each other." The grin grew wider. "My uncle is going to kill you later," I continued.

"That's only if he can catch me, Miss Barton," Tony commented.

At that moment, I heard a very loud _bang_ from the floor above us and some alarm or other going off.

"This was a horrible idea!" Steve shouted.

"This was _your_ idea, you idiot!" Bucky snapped.

I snorted and Tony rolled his eyes. "I'll go see what happened," he muttered, leaving the room. Almost a full minute after he was shouting my name. "Get up here!"

I sighed and did as I was told, jogging to the floor above.

Bucky was lying on top of Steve and Clint lounging on top—their limbs were hopelessly tangled with a Twister mat underneath them and Natasha was laughing her head off. The alarm ringing was where one of them knocked over a lamp and ignited the curtains or something. It looked like Natasha had put the fire out. I raised my eyebrows at the entire situation. Only these two. Honestly. They were trying to disentangle themselves and it was only making it worse. The mat was getting twisted—pun intended—around them, tying them together.

"Help!" Bucky moaned, sounding like some poor little puppy. I glanced at Tony and Natasha. They were shaking their heads, trying to convince me not to help. But the super soldiers looked to helpless and defeated it was almost hilarious.

I waved my hand and the mat vanished—before reappearing, perfectly folded, in the Twister box. The men finally got away from each other, looking relieved. I rubbed my hands together. "Wanna explain what this is all about?" I asked facetiously, giving them a very skeptical look. Steve and Clint averted their eyes—but Bucky was looking me right in the face.

"Steve was wondering what the colorful game box in the cupboard was. Natasha insisted that this game is vitally important to modern culture and suggested we play. Barton assured us she was telling the truth. Steve thought it sounded like a great idea. We just got stuck," he remarked. The innocence in his tone was almost pitiful. He needed to stop letting Natasha and Clint "catch him up" on the twenty-first century.

I face-palmed and shook my head. "Never trust Strike Team Delta" was an _adage_ for SHIELD recruits. Natasha and Clint played off each other seamlessly. If one picked up on the other lying to someone, they'd join right in without a single flaw.

"Tony, whose team am I on?" I asked, glancing up. My eyes flicked between Clint and Bucky.

The billionaire nodded to Bucky. I tugged the assassin to his feet. "Come on, Barnes. We're gonna go get you outfitted."

"For what?"

"You'll see."

As I shoved the laser tag vest over the Winter Soldier's head, I was informed by FRIDAY in my earpiece that there were three teams—and Natasha, Clint, and Bucky were all separated. I smirked as I Velcro-ed his vest into place and handed him the gun attached to it. I slipped my own on much faster and more efficiently as the rest of our team came in.

We (Team One) consisted of: myself, Bucky, Steve, Sam, and Pietro Maximoff.

Team Two consisted of: Clint, Wanda Maximoff, the Vision, Thor, and Jane Foster.

Team Three consisted of: Tony, Bruce, Natasha, Rhodey, and newcomer Scott Lang.

No powers allowed—no enhancements, no crawling through the vents, and no suits.

FRIDAY had been turned off.

This was either going to be the most amazing night ever, or I was going to punch someone in the face. Fifteen people playing laser tag in the New Avengers Facility was a bad idea.

I loved it.

Pepper, Dr. Cho (who was staying for a few days), and Agent Hill had taken the night off, deciding to leave the games to those of us insane enough to go along with it.

I took Bucky's wrist and tugged him towards the door as the lights shut off throughout the whole facility and black-lights turned on from their hidden locations near the floor. Pietro cursed in Sokovian—causing Bucky to snort since he probably knew what the speedster said.

"I'm wearing a white shirt," Pietro hissed as the door keeping us in the prep room eased open automatically.

I shrugged nonchalantly. My own black outfit made me invisible in the darkness. "Take it off then. Your skin won't reflect as much as the shirt," I replied, grinning. My teeth glowed eerily in the black-light—I could see it in the reflection on the glass of the door. All the men in the room (meaning everyone not me) scoffed at me. I could see them roll their eyes.

"You just wanna see him shirtless," Sam teased.

"He wouldn't be shirtless," I retorted. "He's got the vest on too."

"Uh-huh. Sure," Steve remarked sarcastically.

I ignored them and dragged Bucky out into the corridor. He was wearing a long-sleeve black shirt and a fingertip-less glove on his left hand—his metal fingers glistened spookily in the purple light coming off the floor. "Watch out for Hawkeye and Black Widow," I hissed to Bucky.

"Already been doing that," he replied, just as quietly.

The rest of our team seemed to remember we'd started and trailed out of the room after us.

"Should we spread out or stick together?" Sam whispered.

"Spread out. If we stick together and get ambushed, the other teams are gonna rack up so many points we're gonna get annihilated," I answered.

"Agreed," Steve murmured. He, Sam, and Pietro all left—even though powers weren't allowed Pietro blasted away so fast I knew it was a great idea to have him on our team. He'd be pretty good at this. They left me and Bucky alone in the middle of the deserted corridor.

With his arm that wasn't holding the gun—his normal one—he grabbed my vest, pulled me closer, and kissed my forehead. "Good luck. I'll see you when this is over," he murmured into my hair.

I grinned. "Good luck to you too. And don't forget to put your earpiece in."

Each team was on its own earpiece frequency and since FRIDAY was turned off, Tony wasn't allowed to hack in to the other teams' to eavesdrop.

"Already done. You're loud and clear." Grabbing me by the collar of my vest, he gave me a strong kiss on the lips, like he would never see me again and his life depended on it, furrowing his brows and sighing when he let go. I couldn't bring myself to open my eyes for a moment. When I did he was grinning cheekily at me. He winked and melted into the shadows.

I could see why he was an assassin.

I mean, he was _gone_. Like someone _photoshopped_ him out of reality.

It was impressive really.

Hefting my laser tag gun, I shifted into hunting mode. Bucky had taught me how to do it. The prowl with the murderous expression. The taut senses listening, seeing, taking in everything. The constant vigilance. It was a delicate state to be in. But it was great for laser tag.

I sensed someone behind me and ducked behind a pillar right as I heard a _pew, pew, pew!_ I put my head past the pillar, making sure the sensors on my vest were hidden from sight, gazing through the darkness to identify my would-be attacker. I had fabulous night vision—superpowers not necessary—and I could make out the form barely lit by the lights on the vest. Feminine. The movements of the unwieldy weapon in the unpracticed hands and the straight, shorter brown hair illuminated in pale green made it obvious who had tried to sneak up on me.

Jane.

I dodged from the pillar I was behind to another, using my sniping skills that Bucky had taught me to shoot her vest's sensors. I heard her swear and then heard a noise as she bumped into something. I took that opportunity to hit her again, going back to the column. "Who am I even trying to shoot?" she asked, sounding confused.

I grinned but said nothing and made my way away from her. I wasn't quite as clandestine as Bucky, Natasha, and Clint, but I was getting there. Bucky hadn't nicknamed me Shadow for nothing.

After only moments I was far away from her and she didn't even know I'd left.

Then I was the one doing the creeping-up-behind.

Thor was ahead of me, trying to figure out how to use his gun. I shot him once—given the automatic shield would go up and I couldn't get any more points for at least two seconds—and dropped behind a long table that was there for decoration.

"Who goes?" he demanded. I put my gun in my lap and covered the lights on my vest with my arms as I guessed he was checking his surroundings. As I heard his heavy boots start to recede, I jumped up, shot him again, and dropped like a leaf. "Who's there?! I know I am not alone! Show yourself! Do not be a coward!" I shrugged to myself, still pressed against the side of the table. Being sneaky wasn't the same as being a coward. I could stay right where I was and not feel like my womanhood had been impugned upon.

After a moment, I heard Thor coming closer. So I bolted down the hallway and around a corner before he could figure out how to shoot me back.

I wandered the outskirts of the indoor building for the better part of an hour. Occasionally I'd catch a brief glimpse through the black-lit darkness of Pietro's white shirt (apparently he hadn't taken my advice to remove it), Steve's defensive stalk, Sam attempting to be a spy, or Bucky's metal hand glimmering. They all had pale blue lights under their chins from our team vests. Whenever I saw Bucky I'd whisper, "On B's left," into the earpiece. He'd turn around, grin, and go back to prowling.

Then, through my earpiece, I heard Sam swear and mutter, "Hawkeye alert!"

Despite the fact that no one said anything else and Sam didn't say where he was, I sensed the atmosphere of my team instantly tense up. But I grinned, guessing that Bucky was smirking, accepting a challenge. I was still creeping around out of sight, but I knew that the Winter Soldier would be headed for the atrium.

The big heavy fight always managed to be in the atrium—whether it was Nerf guns or paper airplane wars (don't ask—that was a weird day) it didn't matter. Everyone concentrated there. Probably because it was huge, open, and had a mezzanine. That's a type of balcony for those who don't know.

Bucky and I knew that was where Clint would be the moment Sam sounded the alarm.

It had taken an hour for the big, all-out war to get started. So that was a record.

I had two options. Stick to the outside edges of the building and be safe from the other teams, or go into the firefight and rack up some points.

I was more of a spy than a soldier. I liked to operate on the periphery. Hide in the shadows. Be clandestine. Wading into an all-out laser tag war wasn't my idea of a great idea. Stealth shots I could do. Melee I couldn't.

But my mind was whispering something about Bucky and Steve and Sam—the soldiers.

 _They'll need help. And you know how reckless Pietro is,_ my internal monologue reminded me.

I sighed and started up my hunting creep towards the atrium, still on-guard in case Tony or Natasha decided to leap from the rafters—that happened once in the famous Water Balloon War of 2015—and attack. I quickened my pace and made it to the atrium just in time to see Bucky duck under the reception desk. I wasn't sure why we had a reception desk since we never really had visitors and when we did they just blasted through the doors, but maybe it was there for cover in all of the wars we managed to get into.

I had a bad feeling that one day we would get into a _real_ war with each other.

And that wouldn't be pretty.

For a moment I had a very horrifying image of Bucky's metal arm ripping Tony's suit open and wrenching him out.

I got my head back in the war just in time to dodge a shot from Wanda and Vision.

I sniped them both and then tuck-and-rolled, coming up next to Bucky. He was shooting at Clint—who was up on the mezzanine trying to take out both the Winter Soldier and the Black Widow.

I took a couple shots at Bruce and Thor before taking cover. "Any ideas?" I asked. "We're pretty cornered right here. This isn't an ideal spot to be." Bucky rolled his eyes in a _well-done-captain-obvious_ way and glanced around. He knew I was right. We were about to become the best way to rack up points in the history of every single scrimmage we'd ever done as a team.

"You head for the hallway. It's okay if you take a couple hits. Try and get Hawkeye as you're going. Once you reach the hall I'll follow you. We'll see if we can make our way up to the mezzanine the back way while Clint is distracted by Natasha."

That was actually a really great plan.

I grinned and gave him a kiss. "See you in the corridor."

 _"Can you two not kiss now? I can hear it!"_ Steve snapped over the earpieces.

"Grow up, old man," I snapped. I got a better grip on my gun, aimed in Hawkeye's general direction, and took off over the open atrium. I fired off a few shots—somehow managing to nail both Clint _and_ Natasha at least once—and slipped into the hallway. Despite the soft lights on my vest, my black outfit made me nearly invisible. Hardly anyone had even noticed. I snickered as I made it to safety. "Y'all need to get on my _level_!" I hissed into the earpiece sarcastically.

In my mind's eye I could see Steve rolling his eyes at me.

After a moment, Bucky joined me. "Let's go," he said. Without delay we took off through the back corridors until I found the stairs.

Trying the door, I hissed angrily. "It's locked!"

Bucky shrugged, edged past me, and ripped the lock off with his left arm. When my mouth dropped open to tell him off, he shrugged. "I didn't use any powers. It doesn't count," he interrupted before I could even speak. "Shall we?" He took my hand and started to drag me up the stairs. I followed, not bothering to mention that even though his arm didn't count as "powers" it did count as an enhancement—and those weren't allowed either. Tony would probably dock us a few points when the war was over. So we'd have to make up for it on the mezzanine. "Hunting mode," he whispered as we neared the door to the second floor.

"Way ahead of you," I retorted, already stepping silently.

"Doubt that," he joked, climbing up the narrow walls like Spider-Man and opening a ceiling panel.

"What are you—?" I started to demand.

"Rafters. I'll take them from the rafters, you take them from the ground. It'll be great."

"Bucky!" I hissed.

Too late. He was already gone.

A few bad words in other languages ran through my head while I eased open the door to the second floor mezzanine. Natasha and Clint were constantly popping up from behind big objects like prairie dogs—or a game of Whack-A-Mole. They'd take a shot at each other—or occasionally someone who got too close—and then duck back down again.

Then Clint swore. "Winter Soldier alert!" I heard him say. I had crouched to just below a decorative table so he wouldn't see the soft lights from my vest. They weren't looking for me. A grin lit up my face as I shot both of the master assassins on the shoulder sensors of their vests (both Hawkeye and Bucky would be very proud of me for my decent aim) and dropped back to the ground to give their "shields" a moment to drop again before I could shoot them.

Then Bucky took over and I started sniping people on the ground floor, racking up as many points as I could so that the penalty for using powers was already compensated for and we could—hopefully—still win.

I got everyone not on my team at least once as they sprinted across the open floor—except the Vision because he was just floating idly and looked so lost. I got him five or six times.

Suddenly the lights turned back on, shutting the black lights off.

" _Blue team wins!"_ the speakers on the chest pieces of our vests announced.

Me, Bucky, Steve, Sam, and Pietro all cheered. Bucky dropped from the rafters and gave me a celebratory kiss.

"We did it!" I said.

" _Can you two not be kissing now_?" Steve asked through my earpiece. " _I can still hear it_."

The frequencies had opened up so we could all hear each other and I was joined by Natasha, Clint, Bucky, and Tony in a chorus of, "Grow up, old man!"

* * *

 **End Note: What did you think? :-D**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	54. Happy HYDRA Halloween (B)

**Author's Note: Six days into November isn't too late to post my Halloween one-shot right?**

 **54) Happy HYDRA Halloween**

* * *

I loved Halloween. We always got to do crazy stuff in the month before, and then the night of we would all dress up in our actual superhero outfits and escort Clint's kids between houses. Because Laura trusted me more than anyone else, I got to hold Nathaniel in his little baby costume and take Lila and Cooper to the doors while she hung back—since she didn't want to wear a costume.

Bucky rested his flesh hand protectively on my back, metal one tensed. He had a bad case of hypervigilance left over from his time as the Winter Soldier and he _did not like_ Halloween. _At all_. "It's just a big event where every HYDRA agent alive can hide in plain sight and no one would look twice," he told me once. "If that's not bad enough we send children out with very little supervision _in the dark_ where we can barely see them."

"Trick-or-treat!" the five of us at the door chorused as it opened to an elderly couple.

"Look how beautiful you look!" the woman exclaimed to Lila in her princess dress. "And how handsome you are!" she continued to Cooper in his Jedi outfit as she gave them each a _handful_ of candy. "Oh! And look at the parents, all dressed up in matching superhero outfits!"

My mouth dropped open and I glanced back at Bucky. "Oh! No! They're not ours!" I said quickly. "These are our uncle's kids! I wanted to escort them since I won't be able to trick-or-treat for much longer. This is my older brother." The first part was true. The second false. Bucky was the love of my life—definitely not my brother. His fingers flexed into the small of my back for a firmer grip. "Bucky. It's fine. It's just trick-or-treating," I hissed.

"I don't like this."

"You never do."

"Oh, well, you have cute cousins!" the elderly man said, giving us a smile.

"Thank you!" Lila and Cooper exclaimed as Coop took Bucky's hand and I took Lila's with the one not holding Nathaniel. We left the door and went on to the next house, flanked by the entire Avengers team.

"Buck, maybe I should take over," Steve murmured to his best friend quietly. I was standing just close enough to hear him. If it had been anyone but Steve calling him "Buck" he would have ripped them apart—that nickname was reserved especially for Steve. Not even I called him that.

Bucky shook his head. "I'm not leaving her and the kids alone," he replied, nodding his head in my direction.

"You can be back here with the team. I'll just go up to the doors."

"No. I'm fine."

I repressed a snicker. He was definitely _not_ fine, but he wasn't going to admit that.

To change the subject, I piped up, "Next year you guys should go as One Direction." Bucky, Thor, and Steve scrunched their eyebrows, but Tony and Clint started laughing their heads off. I smiled.

"That sounds hilarious!" Tony exclaimed.

Bucky, the kids, and I broke off from the main body of the group to go to another door.

"Can I ring the doorbell?" Lila asked excitedly.

"You rang it last time!" Cooper retorted.

" _I'm_ going to ring it," Bucky snapped at them. They both groaned in complaint. "That's what you get for fighting." I snorted. He gave me a grin. I smiled, casting my mind on our future together. One day, after he got over his PTSD and hypervigilance, I hoped he would give me that same grin over the head of our son or daughter.

With the metal thumb of his prosthetic hand, he pressed the doorbell.

After a pleasant, _ding-dong!_ —

The doorbell blew up.

 _Boom!_

Bucky shoved me and the kids to the ground. I landed painfully on my back to avoid hurting Nathaniel. Debris sprinkled my face as the baby started crying. I sheltered him with my arms as Lila and Cooper started screaming.

Bucky jumped to his feet, glaring into the house. Clint and the team swooped in. The archer and the captain rescued me and the children as the others raced to see what had caused the doorbell to explode and who caused it. Steve held my shaking form—still clutching the baby to my chest—in the same way I held Nathaniel. Laura came over and took her youngest from my arms. I almost didn't want to let him go—my own maternal instinct to protect him had flared with my adrenaline. But when I saw it was his mother I relinquished my hold on him. "You saved him. Thank you," Laura whispered. I nodded in reply, unable to find my voice.

I wanted to curl tighter into Steve's chest, but I needed to go help the team.

I tried to hop out of his powerful arms but he gripped me tighter. "No. You aren't going anywhere."

"The heck I'm not," I retorted.

"You're injured. You can't fight like that—even if there's something to fight."

"I'm not injured. I'm fine!"

Cap shifted my weight into one arm—which was both impressive and demeaning—and I felt it. Burning pain shooting up and down my entire body. I grunted in an attempt to hold back my scream.

At that moment, Bucky came running over. He slid to a stop in his boots and held out his arm. "Give her to me. I'll help Clint take Laura and the kids back to the farmhouse. From there, if Lila and Cooper aren't traumatized, we can pick a different neighborhood."

Cap shook his head. "You'd probably be better in that house than I would."

"I know. But the team doesn't trust me like they trust you. And at the very least I can still be useful by getting the girl I love and those she considers her family to safety while you go be the hero." Bucky paused while I stared at him. "I'm not a hero. You know that, Steve." I opened my mouth to protest but he wasn't finished. "I haven't been since the war—and even then it was always you. But I can do something somewhat noble in getting the innocents and the injured to safety."

While I bit back a cry of agony, Steve transferred me to Bucky's flesh arm.

"How badly am I injured?" I asked.

"Don't even look, doll," Bucky replied as he carefully made his way over to the Bartons. Clint had Lila in one arm and Cooper in the other. Laura had Nathaniel. "You've got a piece of warped metal from the debris in your side—sticking out your back. You landed on it when you saved the baby from getting a concussion. I promise you'll be okay. I'll take care of it."

"I don't doubt that. What's the situation with the exploding doorbell?"

"Not sure."

" _HYDRA rigged it. It's like they knew we would pick this neighborhood. We found the occupants of the house. They were dead in the basement. They've been dead at least two days,"_ Natasha informed us.

For the moment I was thankful the kids didn't have earpieces.

"Yeah. We're not trick-or-treating anymore this year," Clint decided.

"What if it wasn't meant for us?" I asked.

"What do you mean?" Bucky looked down at me.

"HYDRA feeds mayhem and chaos, causes destruction and war. What if the doorbell was rigged to explode so some random bunch of kids got hurt—or worse? What if it was meant to be random so that Congress would have something to do? What if it wasn't even HYDRA?"

Bucky shook his head. "I can't believe that." He set me down on a gurney in the cargo hold of the Quinjet. The Bartons followed us in and Clint jumped into the pilot's seat.

Lila wobbled over to me. "Are you gonna be okay?"

I grinned and cupped her face. "Of course sweetie. Your auntie just needs some rest." I gave her a one-armed hug as the jet took off, heading for the city. "Aren't we going back to the farmhouse?" I asked, looking around as best I could. Bucky was rolling me onto my side. I saw him shake his head out of the corner of my eye.

"No, kiddo. We're taking you to the hospital first," Clint called from the cockpit.

"I'll be fine!" I protested. "We need to get your kids home!"

"They're okay getting you medical attention first."

"Yeah, but I got priorities too—and mine aren't me."

"Well, ours are you. You're going to the hospital," Bucky snapped.

"I love you, but really?" I muttered.

He shrugged—and yanked the warped metal in my back out, quickly applying pressure. Tears flowed from my eyes and I shrieked involuntarily, making Lila jump.

"Sorry sweetie," I said to her.

She gave me a grin that held a wisdom beyond her years in it and brushed the tears off my skin. "It's okay. You have an owie that's pretty bad. I cried when I fell in the backyard and hurt my knee. Yours is worse. It's okay to cry." Her words made me want to bawl even harder. Here this little girl was, scared from a doorbell blowing up, worried if her family was going to be alright (and I don't mean me), and probably going to need several years of therapy after this—and yet she was _comforting me_. She was like _eight_. It was my job to comfort _her_ when I stayed over and she had a bad dream or Coop was picking on her. This wasn't her job.

I put my dirty hands on either side of her face. "Thank you, Lila. Now go sit with your mother and brothers. The ride might get a little rough."

"Lie on your stomach. Gravity will keep some of the blood out of your wound," Bucky instructed. I wasn't entirely sure that was a sound idea, but I did it anyway. He put fresh gauze and pressure on my injury. "Do you understand why I hate Halloween now, love?"

"If you're gloating I'm going to kick your skinny assassin backside into December when I'm fit to fight again."

He chuckled. "I'm not gloating—though, I _did_ tell you so."

I gave him a half-hearted punch. "I still love Halloween."

"Well, then, we'll go laser-tagging when you're better."

"Deal."

* * *

 **End Note: Hope you enjoyed!**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	55. The Right Partner (B)

**Author's Note: I enjoy this one.**

 **55) The Right Partner**

* * *

 _"I might even, when this is all over, go dancing," the woman—Agent Carter—remarked._

 _"Then what are we waiting for?" Bucky asked flirtatiously._

 _"The right partner," Agent Carter answered, almost completely blanking him. "Oh-eight-hundred, captain."_

 _"Yes ma'am," the captain replied._

 _"I'm invisible. I'm turning into you. It's like a horrible dream," he said. There was sarcasm and humor there, but also an element of envy. He wasn't used to being the one in the shadow. He hadn't always_ **wanted** _to be the one in the limelight—since Steve was a much better man than he—but that had been his lot. It was a jarring change to be on the other side._

 _"Don't worry. Maybe she's got a friend."_

He knew his name was Bucky. He was in some bar somewhere he thought he must have known once because everything looked familiar. He knew his name was Bucky. He knew he came from a time long past. He knew things were different. He knew different languages. He knew how to kill a man with his left thumb—though that thumb was made of metal so there might have been an unfair advantage there. He knew how to hold a woman close and dance. He knew how to brush his—sister's?—hair gently out of her face when another man had broken her heart and she was weeping.

He knew his name was Bucky.

A young woman with an outdated hairstyle and soft dark eyes plopped into the seat across from him in the booth. "Sorry about this. Please don't question it. My roommates just showed up here and I don't want to talk to them right now so just pretend like we know each other. Or just pretend I'm not even here." She put a menu up and covered her face.

As soon as a group of three laughing girls passed, she put the menu down.

"Sorry about that. I'll leave you to it," she said, moving to stand up.

His left hand lashed out and caught her wrist. "You look familiar. Why?" he asked.

She shrugged. "I just have one of those faces. People say that to me all the time," she remarked.

"No. That's not it. You look like someone I knew once. Um… her name was… Agent… Margaret Carter. She went by… Peggy."

The girl raised her eyebrows. "My grandmother is named Margaret Carter _Sousa_ ," she remarked. "But you wouldn't know her. She's probably seventy years older than you."

Bucky chuckled. This girl felt friendly. "I'm older than I look. Humor me. She was British. Worked for the SSR during World War Two," he described. Her eyebrows raised as she listened. She licked her lips and tugged on her dress.

"That sounds like my gran. How do you know her?"

"I worked with her for a time. During World War Two." Before she could even react, he asked, "What's your name?"

"America Richardson."

It was all he could do not to laugh. "You and my old best friend would get along great."

"Why?"

"My best friend is Captain America. If you married him you'd be America America."

She rolled her eyes. "No I wouldn't. His last name is Rogers." She paused for a moment. "So… are you… Sergeant Barnes? Fell off a train in forty-five, presumed dead, came back in twenty-fourteen? Are you that guy?"

"Yeah. When you put it that way, you make it sound so simple."

"Well, I figured you wouldn't appreciate me bringing up the more tender points," she remarked sarcastically. She flashed the menu back up over her face as the group of girls—her roommates—walked by the other way. Bucky was impressed—he had no clue how she knew they were coming since they approached from behind her.

"You know, going somewhere more crowded would make it harder to find you."

"Where do you suggest then, Sergeant?"

Bucky shrugged. "The dance floor is pretty crowded. If you get the right partner your roommates won't even realize you're here."

"Are you asking me to dance?" she inquired.

He couldn't help but smile. She reminded him of Peggy—whom he always admired but made sure to not be interested in so Steve could have her—in many ways. She had the same wit and intelligence to the gleam in her eyes. "If you're up to it, I happen to know how," he replied.

A grin tilted up the corners of her lips—which, he noticed, were painted 1940s red.

"Alright then, Sarge. I'll dance."

Bucky smiled and stood up, offering her his hand. She took it and he led her to the dance floor. _Shut Up and Dance_ was playing the last verse or so. "I'd prefer something older, but that's okay." He took her in his arms and started to dance. She smiled and went right along with it. His metal hand and arm were hidden by a glove and a long sleeve. His flesh hand was holding the small of her back, keeping her close to him—possessively. He was showing the other men near the floor that she was his and they were to leave her alone. He licked his lips and grinned down at her. She was still smiling. "Where'd you learn to dance?" he asked, noticing how well she kept up and knew what she was doing.

She shrugged. "Gran taught my mum and dad—her daughter and son-in-law—old-style swing dancing for fun and they in turn taught me."

"Gran being Peggy?"

"Yeah. She was a brilliant dancer, apparently. She was too old to dance when I was born but I have a few old videos. I also did swing club in high school—nearly got a concussion but it was fun."

They were silent through _Love Runs Out_ by OneRepublic and _Can't Take My Eyes Off of You_ by John Barrowman. The only words they exchanged were the names of moves as a warning for what he was going to do to her and her asking if she trod on his toes.

The rest of the dancers had cleared off a bit, making room for their crazy lifts and tricks.

Then _A Thousand Years_ came on—the version by John Barrowman. "The DJ must be a fan," she commented quietly. Bucky barely heard her.

His light, fun swing grip went rigid for a moment as he counted the time signature of the music. It was a waltz. He closed his eyes for a moment to see if he remembered the proper steps and moves for a waltz. After a moment, the rigidity turned a bit more relaxed, but still formal. His grip on the small of her back moved up to just under and behind her armpit. He lifted his elbow and his other hand.

If he was honest with himself, he was surprised he still had the fluidity he hadn't used for seventy years—believe it or not he didn't need to use his dance skills much when he was an assassin. But the way he felt the music flow through him, guiding his feet, it brought back memories of better times.

His much shorter partner kept up with him, but obviously she was struggling to keep up with his long legs. He shortened his stride, twirled her under his arm, and dipped her over his leg.

For a moment he had a crazy urge to kiss her—like he would have done in the 40s.

He pushed that urge down, popped her back up, and kept waltzing.

At the end of the song though, she slid her hand from his shoulder to the back of his neck and she gave him a kiss.

He froze, entire body going completely rigid.

After a moment he relaxed into it, getting several whistles and catcalls from other patrons. He smiled against her lips.

He'd found the right partner.

* * *

 **End Note: Tell me what you thought! I love hearing from readers!**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	56. Karaoke and a Bar Fight (SB)

**Author's Note: This was based off a prompt that I changed slightly to fit. It was so much fun!**

 **56) Karaoke and a Bar Fight**

* * *

"C'mon! You can sing! Just because you're the designated driver doesn't mean you can't _act_ like you're drunk, get up on that stage, and sing your heart out!" one of my friends complained to me, nearly spilling his drink all over himself. I rolled my eyes. We would probably get a cab home—all of us—so I had no idea where the idea of a designated driver came from. Just because I chose not to drink alcohol didn't mean I had the guts to drive in the middle of New York.

"I really can't sing and you guys all know that," I retorted. _I really should have stayed in tonight,_ I thought. _I didn't know they were going to get this drunk_.

"C'mon, kiddo! No one will remember it! No harm, no foul! We all know you were in choir in high school!" another friend tried. The others I was with all chimed in their agreement. I shook my head again.

"Guys, I really don't want to do karaoke," I said.

They were stronger than I thought. As the last song ended they literally all stood up from our table and pushed me all the way to the stage. It was a bad idea to go out tonight.

As soon as I was on the stage, I got a couple whistles from the crowd. I tried to get off, but my friends kept pushing me up and the other patrons were all calling for me to stay. Talk about peer pressure, geez-Louise. "Guys, I don't want to do this!" I snapped at my friends. I felt my hands going cold and my face going pale. I didn't usually get stage fright but I hated attention—particularly in a bar. It made me so nervous. "Let me down!"

Then a man with dark hair jumped up on the stage next to me. He didn't look drunk at all. "Bucky, no!" the blond friend he was with hissed.

"Bucky, yes," he retorted. He slung his right arm around my waist. "Whaddaya say, darlin'? Wanna sing a duet?" He had a fake accent on that was meant to be charming and funny. Probably.

The actual answer was no. I did not.

But my friends wouldn't let me get off the stage and singing with someone was far less embarrassing than singing alone. So I shrugged. "Sure?"

"Wanna pick the song or do you want me to?"

I licked my lips. "Together?" I suggested. He grinned, led me over to the tablet that had the song selection, and started scrolling through. "How about that one?" I glanced up at his brilliant blue eyes, pointing at a song. It was the duet from Tangled. _I See the Light_. He pursed his lips thoughtfully and pointed to a different one.

"I think this one," he commented.

"Okay."

 _Find You—_ Zedd.

I didn't know the song very well, but I knew the tune and the words were right there and this guy was starting off anyway. I'd be fine. He opened his mouth and started. My mouth dropped open, he had a really good voice. It was clear and precise—as well as a bit husky. I went second—"Make them dance—just like you—'cause you make me move!" and we kept going. He had on hand in his pocket and one on the microphone. I copied him.

Deciding it couldn't hurt because my friends were all drunk and wouldn't remember this in the morning, I opened my throat and sang louder. I kept it nice, I wasn't shouting, but I let the music infuse me. As much as I didn't want to sing in the bar, I was actually pretty good at it. Not great, but I could at the very least carry a tune.

When the song was over, my handsome rescuer-stranger gave me a kiss on the knuckles—much to the delight of the drunk people around us. "I'm Bucky, by the way."

"Cass."

"It's a pleasure to meet you." He led me to the edge of the stage, hopped off, and held his arms out for me. I put my arms on his shoulders—shocked at how tense his left one felt—and let him help me down. When my feet hit the floor, I was surprised at how close to his face I was. I was short but he was still so near I could smell him—he smelled like chocolate chip cookies. "So wanna exchange numbers and do this again sometime?" he asked flirtatiously.

What could I say? I owed him one for saving me. "Sure!" I pulled my silver Sharpie and miniature pad of paper out of my purse. I wrote my number down under my name (just my first name and last initial) without even wondering if I should have given him the one for the rejection hotline. I passed it to him. He tore off the bottom of the paper and wrote his own. _Bucky B._

As I moved to go back to my friends, he grabbed my elbow. "You don't happen to know how to swing dance do you?"

A mischievous grin tugged on my lips. "A bit."

"Maybe that's what we'll do next time." He winked at me and went back to his blond friend—who I suddenly recognized. My jaw dropped open. _This guy is friends with Steve Rogers?_ I thought, surprised. I stared at them for a moment, wondering if it would be appropriate for me to introduce myself to the Avenger, before deciding against it and going back to my friends. They probably got bombarded by fangirls all the time. They didn't need one more. It wasn't their fault they saved the world and suddenly were more famous than they were before.

So I pretended they weren't there. Occasionally I'd catch Bucky smiling in my direction. When I'd make eye contact he'd raise his drink and take a swig. I would too—but mine was just soda. After a while I realized he drank quite a lot—and it looked like alcohol—and he still wasn't drunk.

That was impressive but… What? Why?

I stopped paying attention to him and his Avenger friend after a while because I was too busy keeping one of my friends from falling asleep on my shoulder.

Sick of it, I stood up and went to the bar to refill my soda.

"Hey sweetheart. Heard you singing. It sounded beautiful. Can I buy you a drink and we'll talk about it?" a voice asked from behind me. I raised my eyebrows and turned around. The guy was tall, dark, not-so-handsome—just Random Stranger Number Three. I gave him a sympathetic grin and lifted my glass of soda.

"Thank you for the offer. But I've already got a drink. Sorry."

I moved to go back to my friends when he caught my wrist. "Please. I insist."

"No thank you. Excuse me, I have to return to my friends." I tried to tug away but he was too strong. "Please, sir, I need to get back."

"Oh come on, darling!"

A hand landed on his shoulder. The man whirled to see _Steve Rogers_ standing there.

"She said 'no', you creep," he snapped, voice eerily calm—

Before he punched him in the face.

The guy fell to the ground. I yelped and jumped backwards to avoid getting hit on his way down. "Are you alright?" the Avenger asked me. I stared at him blankly for a moment before remembering he said something and then nodded.

"Y-yeah. Th-thanks," I stuttered, completely star-struck.

The man stood up and tried to punch Steve Rogers back. The blond dodged easily and hit him again—this time with his other hand. Bucky stood up from their table and came over. "That's enough," he commented. Without missing a beat he bent over and picked up Captain America on his left shoulder like a sack of potatoes and stood. "Miss Cass, care to join us?" He extended his left hand to me. I took it and went with him. He carried his friend like he weighed _nothing_. When the three of us exited the bar, Bucky dropped Steve Rogers to the sidewalk.

I stared between the two of them.

The Avenger came over to me and held his hand out. "Didn't introduce myself. Steve."

"Cass," I said, in so much awe and confusion I didn't know what to do.

"You don't think your friends will mind that you came out with us, do you?" Bucky asked. I shrugged.

"They're all drunk enough they won't remember I even went with them to the bar."

"You're not drunk," Steve remarked.

"Neither are you," I retorted.

Both men actually chuckled.

"How about we take you somewhere you're not getting harassed by your friends and strangers alike. I swear we won't hurt you," Bucky suggested. I raised my eyebrows. I believed they wouldn't hurt me or anything—Steve _did_ just punch a guy for being too forward with me—but that didn't mean I knew them well enough to trust them.

"Like… where?"

"There's a lovely dance floor a few blocks from here. You might know it. It's called Avengers Tower."

I choked. "What?"

Bucky grinned. "You said you swing dance. Come on. It'll be fun."

* * *

 **End Note: I strongly believe - and no one will convince me otherwise - that Bucky, like Steve, can't get drunk. (Also, I like Find You. I think it's kind of a Bucky & Steve song...)**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	57. Knife Fight (B)

**Author's Note: I want Bucky to teach me how to knife fight.**

 **57) Knife Fight**

* * *

Punch kick swipe dodge twist elbow knee jab duck hit block. Repeat. Clint, Natasha, and I were doing a free-for-all training spar. So far Clint and Natasha were either brutally attacking each other while I awkwardly stood there, or they were teamed up against me.

There was a moment where I was by myself when I caught sight of Bucky.

He was attacking a pillar with rotating rods sticking out of the sides. There was a sleek silver dagger in his right hand.

His movements were quick, efficient, ruthless, and relentless.

With a quick sweep of my leg, I knocked Clint and Natasha off their feet while they weren't paying attention to me, jumped out of the fighting ring (which is square, actually) and rushed over to the former Russian assassin. "Show me how to do that!" I practically whispered, in awe of his expertise. He scrunched his eyebrows and looked down at me.

"What?"

"That—whatever you just did! Show me how!"

"Why?"

"Because I dated a knife fighter once—his name was Loki and it was messy when it ended but whatever—and he taught me how to use a knife but _that_ was some next level skill right there!" That was when my brain caught up with my mouth and I snapped my teeth shut. Bucky didn't like being crowded and he was still recovering. I needed to respect him. "I'm sorry. Never mind. I just… get really enthusiastic about things." I shook my head to clear it— _Geez, what were you thinking you idiot?_ —and started to retreat back to the fighting ring. Natasha and Clint looked like they hadn't even noticed I'd gone missing from their fight.

Metal fingers closed around my wrist. "No. It's alright. It's just… people usually avoid me." He shrugged. "But I'd be happy to teach you. I just didn't know why you wanted _me_ to show you." I grinned giddily as he dragged another rotating-arm-dummy over and rested it in front of me. "Here." He pulled another dagger out of his thigh-holster and passed it to me. "Hold it in a reverse-grip and copy my movements. We'll start slowly."

I flipped the hilt of the blade so I had it like he said and then lifted my arms. "Okay."

"Ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

"Alright. Here we go." And he moved through the motions fluidly. He knew exactly what he was doing. There was an almost eerie comfortable familiarity to how he twisted, ducked, and slashed. I followed slower, clumsier, with more concentration.

When we made one circuit of the movements, I smiled, exhilarated. "That was _awesome!"_ I exclaimed.

"Not bad, for your first time," he evaluated.

"I was trained by two master assassins, you know," I remarked sarcastically.

He licked his lips and grinned. "Wanna be trained by one more?"

My smile grew wider. "Oh heck yeah!"

"Let's go through again. Sharper this time. Precision and accuracy are key points here."

So we did. And again. And again. Until I wasn't thinking about it and panting. Natasha and Clint left at some point, leaving the gym to me and Bucky. We got faster—but not much. I'm not sure how many times we went through, but it got easier. When we finally finished I collapsed against the dummy. "Whew! That's so cool!" I breathed, putting my arm up. I flipped the weapon in my hand and took a careful grip on the blade of the knife and offered him the hilt. Bucky shook his head and hit the floor next to me. He wasn't even winded. I knew he could take out an entire SWAT team without breaking a sweat but that didn't mean I wasn't jealous.

"No. Keep it for a minute," he said. He grabbed something from the other side of the dummy and passed it to me. A whetstone. I grinned and took it from him, sharpening the slightly-dulled blade with practiced movements. It reminded me of many nights in the living room with Loki, watching TV and toying with his weapons. The motions of knife-sharpening were familiar.

They were good memories, despite the messy breakup.

"Honestly, kid, you did well—better than I thought you would, to be honest."

I smirked. "I surprise people a lot," I said. He chuckled.

"Would you like to see some more?"

"Sure!"

"Would you like to spar?"

My mouth dropped open. "No weapons and you're on."

It was his turn to smirk. "Deal."

We put down our knives and jumped into the ring. "FRIDAY, if you'd please tell the rest of the team that Bucky and I might be late to dinner, that'd be great!" I called to the AI.

"Yes miss," the accented female voice said.

I bent my knees and shifted my weight onto my toes. I was so ready. I knew he was stronger than I was, but I was pretty sure I had the speed to take that on. Vaguely I remembered that one line from the movie, _Count of Monte Cristo_ that the old priest told the protagonist. "It is not always the stronger swordsman that wins. It's _speed!"_ Or something to that effect.

I'd still probably lose, but I wanted to try out my hand against the best assassin in history.

The second FRIDAY rang the bell for us to start I jumped into my fighting stance, never taking my eyes off of Bucky. His piercing blue eyes were glimmering with mirth and humor. He was laughing at me. I could feel it. Like I was the white-belt newbie assigned to fight with him. I was amateur. Comical.

At least in his mind.

 _Watch me prove you wrong,_ I thought. An evil smirk curled up my lips.

I started with a roundhouse kick towards his head. He ducked under it and caught my knee. That would throw most people off, but I knew it was coming. I jumped with my other leg and wrapped that knee around the back of his neck and pulled him to the ground. I guess learning how to do those dangerous tricks and lifts in dancing growing up weren't so useless after all. When he was on the ground I rolled up and knelt on his chest, straddling him. One of my hands held his neck in a chokehold and the other wound back for a punch.

His normal hand caught my fist and he threw me off, his metal prosthetic smashing me in the chest. I hit the ground, barely keeping my head up so I wouldn't get a concussion.

And the positions were reversed—except he wasn't going to hit me. He was going to choke me.

I wrapped my right leg around his left and grabbed his metal arm. I rolled to my right. It got him off me because he couldn't reach out and catch himself. I flipped back up to my feet and gave him a moment to get back to his.

From there it felt like choreography from a movie. We weren't exactly King Fu masters or anything, but we both knew what we were doing.

Turned out, we were late to dinner. By the time we were done fighting and showering and changing and etc, the rest of the team had already divvied up their portions and sat down. Bucky and I burst into the eating area with wet hair. Bucky's knife was tucked into my boot. "And what were _you two_ doing?" Tony asked suggestively.

"Not that," I retorted. "We were fighting."

"About what?" Steve asked, concerned.

I picked up the tablet on the table and pulled up the security footage of Bucky and me knife-training and sparring. "That."

"Ah."

I smirked. "It was fun. I learned a lot."

Bucky gave me a buddy-buddy nudge. "Let's eat. I bet you're starving."

I shrugged. "Not really. But maybe." We went and got food, sat next to each other, and talked about knife-fighting techniques. I told him how Loki taught me and he told me how HYDRA trained him. In short, it was the most productive day I'd ever had.

* * *

 **End Note: Dirty-minded Tony.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	58. I'm Not a Princess (B)

**Author's Note: I am** ** _so. frickin. proud._** **of this one! I love it so much. It's a Medieval AU (alternate universe) I thought of in the shower this one time and I wrote it so fast I was like, "Holy Hannah I love this!"**

 **58) I'm Not a Princess**

* * *

" _Illegitimate_!"

The word was barked from the mouth of a guard and I was shoved forward unceremoniously, falling on my knees before the queen. I heard the crack of the whip before the pain registered on my back, skin splitting open, pushing me onto all fours. Tears streamed from my eyes as my hair—matted with blood—hung in empty space on either side of my face.

Queen Laura Barton wasn't called the Soul Reaper for her kindness.

After King Clinton Francis Barton passed on of fever a year or so ago she ruled the kingdom with an iron fist.

"This is the illegitimate daughter of the king," the guard continued. "Her mother was already gone when we found her, Your Majesty." The woman in the grand gown on the throne raised her chin with pride and gazed down at me. Her three children, legitimate heirs to the throne all younger than me, sat in their seats respectfully behind her. The eldest—Crown Prince Cooper—was probably twelve. The youngest—Nathaniel—was an infant in the arms of a nanny. The eight-year-old princess obviously had no clue what was going on. She was playing idly with the hem of her dress.

"She will be executed at dawn," the queen decreed.

My blood ran cold. That was it then. I had no choice. I didn't ask for this life. I didn't ask to be the daughter born out of wedlock after a night of lonely, drunken passion. I didn't want any of this to happen. I was just going about my life peacefully, knowing I could never belong, when the guards swooped in, demanded my name, and swooped out—taking me with them. I didn't ask for the eight wounds on my back from the whip.

I didn't ask for this.

"Yes, Your Majesty," the guard said. He hauled me up by my armpit and dragged me away with the help of a comrade. I was too exhausted to resist or fight back. Limply I let them bear me to the dungeon. I was thrown onto the straw-covered floor and locked in.

Resigned to my fate, I stared at the wall, conscious of the fact that it was afternoon. I had less than a day to live. I would die soon. No one would remember me except the resentful queen.

As the sun started to go down, I heard a tap on the door to my cell. I jumped and turned away from the wall.

Two knights were crouched in the shadows, grinning. One had armor down his entire left arm, a red star painted on the deltoid. He had overlong brown hair and pale blue eyes. Other than the armor on his arm, he had none on—clothed instead in black. The other had shorter-cropped blond hair and gray-blue eyes. He too was clad in black. But instead of armor he had a perfectly circular shield with stripes of color and a star in the center strapped to his left arm.

The star was the mark of the king.

That mark had been banned when the king passed on.

Both of them looked mischievous in a way I couldn't describe in my exhausted state. Their eyes glittered with mirth in the dying light.

"We're here to rescue you, princess," the dark-haired one whispered. "Come quickly!"

I shook my head, barely comprehending his words. "I can't. My back…" I muttered vaguely, gesturing to the torn flaps of my simple frock that had been ripped by the whip. "I'm not a princess…" I blinked, trying to make sure they were real. Perhaps I was hallucinating.

"We're gonna get you outta here," the blond one insisted. "It's gonna be okay!"

The dark-haired one ripped the lock to my cell off with his armored arm and opened the door. "Hurry. We don't have much time!" he hissed.

Realizing I wasn't, in fact, dreaming, I managed to get to my feet and stagger towards the door.

"I'm Sir Steven, former captain of the guard, and this is Sir James, former sergeant," the blond introduced, slinging his free arm under my shoulders to help keep me on two legs. Sir James drew his sword and we rushed as quickly as we could out of the dungeons. I watched as we took back alleys through the city surrounding the castle and made it to the forest beyond. Bewilderment was running rampant through my head.

"Where are we going?" I asked. "Why are you helping me?"

"We're going to the place where all of the king's most loyal followers were exiled. We're helping you because you don't deserve to die. Queen Laura is blinded by grief, mourning the loss of her husband. You don't warrant the receiving end of that sightless rage," Sir James put in as he took up helping me and Sir Steven unsheathed his sword.

I'd heard the gossip that spread through the kingdom like wildfire about the king's followers' exile back when King Clinton died. The Avengers Tower was a watchtower on the border of the land that was supposed to be haunted and had been abandoned for decades.

We travelled as swiftly as an incapacitated young woman and two knights _could_ travel in the dead of night. Several times I collapsed to the ground, bleeding, claiming I couldn't go on any longer.

Every single time, James or Steven would hoist me up into his arms and carry me until I had the strength to keep my feet again.

Dawn was beginning to appear when the silhouette of the Avengers Tower leered from the shadows.

Sir Steven knocked on the door and after a moment, we were let inside.

"Let me take her. She will need to be cleaned up and rested," a woman with short dark hair and piercing blue eyes insisted. She and another woman with long brown hair took me from the knights and bore me up several stairs into a dusty washroom.

As they helped me strip off my clothing and ease into the cold water, I learned their names were Dames Maria Hill and Wanda Maximoff. The other woman in the Tower—Natalia Romanova—was out spying on the rest of the kingdom, searching for news. It was through her they had known to go and rescue me. She was due back around nightfall. Dame Wanda washed my hair and Dame Maria sponged the blood off my back and the dirt off my face. They were remarkably gentle, though I could feel calluses on their hands from hard work.

When I was clean, they helped me out of the murky, bloody water and bandaged my wounds. When they finished, they selected a sleeping dress for me to wear—cleaner and grander than the one I had arrived in—and helped me into it. By the time it was over, the sun was well and truly up, and I was ready to collapse.

The sleeping room was long and communal. There were several men there, getting ready for the new day. I recognized Sir Anthony, Sir Thor, and Sir Bruce from one of the king's parades through my old hometown several years ago. They had been amazingly kind to me—though at the time I was nobody. Sir Anthony told me, after I asked later, that his lady—Lady Virginia Potts—was still in the castle.

Sir Steven and Sir James were—like me—getting ready for sleep. James kept his armored sleeve on ("Just in case") even with his sleeping clothes.

There were two chocolate-skinned knights I didn't recognize—introduced to me later as Sir Samuel and Sir Rhodes—and a man with curly silver-white hair. He was Dame Wanda's twin brother, apparently, named Sir Pietro. I knew from rumors that made their way to my town that Natalia, Wanda, and Pietro were from another kingdom far away, but King Clinton's heart had ached for their situations and he had taken them in. Because of his kindness they were devoted to him.

Hence why they ended up in the Avengers Tower. In exile.

I was ordered into the bed between Sir James and Sir Steven—in the event of getting raided by the queen's guard, they would protect me—and tucked in with the help of Wanda and Maria.

Exhausted, bedraggled, but clean for the first time in days, and weak, I collapsed immediately, sure I wouldn't wake up for one hundred years.

Right before I fell asleep, I saw Sir James grin and wink at me. "Sleep well, princess."

"I'm not a princess," I repeated tiredly, voice slurred, before I dropped off.

My dreams were largely peaceful—until the queen entered them. Then all I saw was fire and blood. I heard screams and saw flashes of the king's followers around me, dead. Sir Steven's shield was cracked in half. Queen Laura loomed over me, glaring down at my huddled form. "Look what you've caused, you insolent, pathetic child! This is all your fault!"

I woke up with a loud yelp, bolting upright and wincing when I pulled on the bandages.

It was dark around me. I had slept all day and well into the night.

A weight sat on the bed next to me and arms wrapped around my shoulders—one of them was coated in metal. "Shh, princess. It's alright. It was just a dream. You're safe here with us. No one wants to harm you here," Sir James whispered, trying to soothe me and not wake up the rest of the group.

"I'm not a princess," I muttered into his white cotton shirt. I could feel his powerful chest muscles flex as he chuckled lightly, quietly.

"If the king were still alive, you would be," he murmured gently.

"But he's not," I pointed out.

"You're his daughter just as much as Princess Lila is. He wouldn't want you to be treated this way—especially not by his wife." He kissed the top of my head as well as my knuckles and stroked my hair with his unarmored hand. "You'll be fine here. Safe. We'll protect you. Clint would want us to." I felt a grin tug on the corners of my lips. They must have known the king pretty well to be allowed to call him anything other than "Your Majesty" or "King Clinton".

Something I could never have—though I _was_ his daughter. His eldest child.

 _Illegitimate._

That one word destroyed my whole life.

Sir James' tenderness eased me back to sleep, the side of my face resting against his chest, the pain throbbing over my back forgotten because of his warmth.

When sunlight danced over my closed eyelids and woke me up, I opened my eyes.

"Good morning, princess," Sir James greeted brightly.

"I'm not a princess," I retorted with a smile.

* * *

 **End Note: AAAHHH! I loved this one so much! (Sorry for the lack of the Vision. I had NO CLUE how I would incorporate a red-skinned android into a medieval setting.)**

 **Thank you for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	59. Today's MY Birthday (PBS)

**Author's Note: So... as today is my ACTUAL birthday, I thought I'd put this up!**

 **59) Today's MY Birthday**

* * *

"Lady Cass!" Thor exclaimed, sounding morose, as he found me in the kitchen eating a piece of Clint's best cake for breakfast, leaned against the counter in my jammies. I looked up, hair messy and still slightly damp from my shower the night before, half a forkful of cake hanging out my open mouth.

"Wha'?" I asked, tired and confused.

"I did not realize that today is the nineteenth anniversary of your birth! I am afraid I have not gotten anything to commemorate this momentous occasion!" he said while I chewed.

"Thor, don't worry," I remarked.

"Worry about what?" Bucky asked as he and Steve walked into the room with files in their hands.

"Nothing," I quickly put in. I had discovered that as I got older birthdays got less and less fun and I didn't want people to know about them—mostly because in high school everyone was terrible at singing yet they insisted on singing to me for my birthday because I had so many friends with big mouths and would announce it to the whole class.

Steve and Bucky gave me skeptical looks.

"It is the nineteenth anniversary of the day of her birth!" Thor announced. I buried my face in my hand before spearing my slice of cake with my fork.

"You had to open your big mouth," I muttered.

Steve and Bucky slowly turned to look at me from where they'd been looking at Thor. "And you didn't tell us?" Steve asked, sounding offended. He and Bucky put on matching expressions of mock-scandalized that made me snort.

"Birthdays are less and less fun the older I get," I admitted.

"Ugh! Tell me about it!" Bucky exclaimed sarcastically. "I mean, I'm only ninety-eight!" I snorted again and rolled my eyes.

"Shut up," I muttered.

"Why didn't you tell us? We would've made you a cake."

"Clint already did," I commented, motioning to the slice in front of me with my fork. "And I didn't want to tell anybody because it's just another year and I don't like people making a big deal out of me. It makes me uncomfortable." I shrugged and shoved another forkful into my mouth, chewing carefully, savoring the flavor, and swallowing. "Plus, it's the first birthday I've celebrated without my family."

"Are we not your family?" Steve asked.

I shrugged. "Yeah. But I've never celebrated without my parents and my sister."

"I feel I must give you _something_ for today," Thor put in.

Suddenly I perked up. "You _can_!" I realized.

"Name it."

"A storm. Proper rain!" I exclaimed. Bucky and Steve stared at me like I'd gone crazy.

"What?" Steve asked.

"I _love_ rain!" I told them enthusiastically. I turned to Thor. "Would you?"

"Of course, if that is all you want for your day, I would do it gladly."

I squealed, gave him a hug, and grabbed my cake before running towards the door. "I'm gonna go get outta my pajamas! I'll see you on the lawn in twenty minutes!" I called.

I pulled on a long-sleeved T-shirt and black sweatpants. The problem with a November birthday was it was always cold outside. Not that I cared. I threw a jacket on over my shirt and yanked my boots on. After pulling a brush through my stupidly thick hair, I finished my cake, brushed my teeth, and bolted out of my bedroom. Thor was standing on the back lawn of the New Avengers Facility, patiently, cape fluttering in the light breeze and Mjolnir hanging limply in his hand. "Are you ready, Cass?" he asked. I bit my lower lip and nodded excitedly.

Three figures emerged from the building. All of them were tall (but I'm only 5'1" so pretty much everyone is tall compared to me). All of them had blue eyes. Two were blond and one had dark brown hair. I stared between the three of them with scrunched eyebrows.

"Happy birthday, princessa," Pietro remarked as they reached me.

"You dragged him into this?" I demanded accusingly at Bucky and Steve.

"He asked why we were getting our coats on," Steve answered innocently. I narrowed my eyes but let the speedster give me a big hug. Once I got hugs from the super soldiers I turned to Thor.

"Go ahead."

He grinned at me and lifted his hammer above his head. Lightning coursed over it and clouds gathered—thick and darker gray than any other storm clouds I'd ever seen. I felt giddy as the first few drops started to fall on the ground, quickly turning into a steady downpour. I let out a laugh of happiness. Growing up in a desert state, I _loved_ whenever I saw rain.

I ran around the lawn, arms spread wide and head thrown back, letting my already damp hair get even wetter. I was very conscious of the four men watching me, but I couldn't bring myself to care. I was enjoying myself a bit too much.

Finally I stopped in front of them, a reckless abandon I had never been prone to in my entire short life taking over and giving me bravery I wasn't normally capable of. "Okay, you three," I started, addressing Steve, Bucky, and Pietro because Thor would _not_ want to participate. "Which of you is going to give me my first kiss?"

Bucky and Pietro's jaws dropped. "You haven't had your first kiss and you're _nineteen?_ " Bucky demanded.

I nodded. "Yup!" I informed them, popping the "p" for a juvenile effect.

Before I could even do anything else Bucky had wrapped me in his arms and was kissing me, gentle but strong. My eyes closed and I leaned into him. I could feel his still-slightly-too-long hair dripping onto my face. My hands slid from where they were hanging in empty space to his back. He tilted his face slightly for a better angle. I could feel his frigid left arm through my wet clothing, but I couldn't bring myself to particularly care. I was bent slightly backward because he was so tall. Not that I'm complaining. His normal hand was holding the spot where my neck met my head in a firm but cautious grip. I felt like I was going to melt.

When Bucky finally pulled away—leaving me feeling very exhilarated—he smiled. "There. Now you've had your first."

Steve took my shoulders carefully and kissed my forehead. "I'm not going to try to one-up that, Cass," he commented with a smile. I grinned. He gave me a quick peck on the lips and a wink before giving me a bear hug and taking a step back.

Pietro _tsk_ ed. "Amateurs," he scoffed in his wonderful accent.

"Did this become a contest?" I asked with scrunched eyebrows.

"Yes," Pietro decided.

A blue blur passed over my vision and I was dipped backwards. His curly silver-white-blond hair hung in the empty space between our heads and mine was so long that several inches of it were pooled on the wet lawn. His stringy strands dripped onto my forehead before he leaned down and gave me a long, lingering kiss.

When he pulled back, he was smiling. " _That_ is how a man kisses a woman," he commented, popping me back up so I was standing straight.

"Who won?" Steve joked. "I mean, I know _I'm_ totally out of the running 'cause there was _no way_ I was gonna beat Bucky." A shudder cascaded down my body as a drop of rain slicked down my spine. "Are you cold?" he asked. I shrugged.

"Bit," I answered shortly.

"Then let's get you inside!" Bucky exclaimed.

"Wait! Who won?" Thor asked. I'd almost completely forgotten he was there.

My mouth hung open for a moment as I thought about it. I didn't exactly want to choose because I'd enjoyed both of them greatly. But… when if they were making me…

"Bucky," I answered.

The former assassin did a fist pump and shook Pietro's hand. "Personally, I was rooting for you," he commented.

"Sure," Pietro muttered sarcastically.

The five of us rushed back to the entrance of the New Avengers Facility as the rain abruptly stopped. I went back to my bedroom and threw my wet clothes into my hamper before changing into my black skinny jeans (that weren't actually denim) and a relatively nice shirt. My intercom buzzed just as I finished re-brushing my hair. "Yeah?" I greeted.

"We need you in the lounge, Cass," Steve said, sounding urgent.

 _Crap. What happened?_ I thought frantically as I pulled on my Converse hi-tops that I'd had since I was about fourteen. Once the laces were tied I took off through the building. I was nowhere _near_ as fast as the rest of the people who lived there, but whatever.

The door to the lounge was closed—which was odd. I took a moment to steady my breathing before pushing it open.

Confetti exploded in my face and I heard party noise-makers being blown. As soon as the multi-colored strips of paper settled down, I saw that the lounge had been entirely decorated with streamers and balloons. There were about ten people milled about just in front of the sofas. I recognized all of them. A smile lit up my face.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" the team shouted at the top of their lungs.

* * *

 **End Note: So yeah. Interesting thing I haven't actually had my first kiss yet. Huh.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	60. Bad Dream (PS)

**Author's Note: So, I have a lot of Bucky one-shots still in the wings, but I want to post some of the others I've written, so I'm taking a break from Bucky shots and posting those others instead!**

 **60) Bad Dream**

* * *

I ran my hand through my hair, staring. "Oh gosh," I muttered blankly.

Zipping in circles around my ankles was Pietro Maximoff—toddler version. Toddler-Steve was sitting in a corner, standing on his shield, still in his stealth suit. "How come it was just those two?" I asked Agent Hill as she stood behind me.

"Steve got a direct hit and Pietro shoved Wanda out of the way," she replied. "Vision destroyed the machine right after that. But too late. Tony and Bruce are working on a cure right now."

The two Avengers were staring at me with their big blue baby eyes.

"And you want _me_ to babysit them?"

"For now. Wanda will take over in a few hours. Don't worry. They won't cause too much trouble—they can't even reach the doorknob." With that Hill left the room, locking me and the toddlers in. I groaned with complaint as Pietro kept running in circles around me—cackling madly—and Steve started jumping on his shield. What the heck had happened to my life? I was a former SHIELD _linguist_. I wasn't a babysitter! Even though I knew exactly what Pietro was saying as he spouted stuff in his native language, I didn't see why I was the one who got shoved into this assignment.

I knelt down and stuck out my arm—catching Pietro mid-stride and yanking him to me. I picked him up and settled him on my hip. " _That's enough of that,_ " I told him in Sokovian. He gave me a pouty look, eyes faking watering up. " _Don't give me that._ "

" _But Caaaaaassssssssssssssssss!"_ he protested.

"Don't even think about it," I snapped at Steve as he tried to jump from the top of his curved shield to the heat radiator, snagging him around the waist and putting him on my other hip. "No."

"But Caaaaaassssssssssssssssss!" the Avengers' team leader complained.

" _No!"_ I snapped.

"Am I a superhero? I feel like I should be a superhero," Pietro remarked.

I set them down on the sofa and got out a kids' movie—Megamind. "Yes, Pietro, you are a superhero. Definitely. Now let's watch this movie while… _Auntie_ Cass gets some answers. Okay?" I gave them a smile and a fruit snack. They shut their mouths and went entirely engrossed into the movie. I slipped to the back of the room and made a call.

"Hello?" a familiar voice asked.

"Clint? How do I babysit two Avengers-turned-toddlers?" I hissed quietly, turning up the TV volume with the remote so the boys wouldn't hear me. "How do I supervise children? I'm a linguist not a handler! I can barely keep track of my socks let alone two superheroes who have become babies!"

I heard the archer sigh. "Relax, Cass. You'll do fine. Just keep them from killing themselves and soothe them if they cry. Also I'd suggest putting them down for a nap in about an hour."

"How do you suggest I go about doing that given they both have more energy than a sun?"

"Stick 'em in a crib and let them cry themselves to sleep."

"Oh. Okay. Sounds good. Thanks."

After I hung up, watching them was pretty easy. For being children again they had remarkably long attention spans—particularly Pietro who even as an adult couldn't sit still for more than two minutes without getting really bored. Everything was quick with him—often he ate so fast he got stomach problems and Wanda would laugh at him for hours.

But they surprised me and watched the entire movie.

Once it was over, I put them down for a nap. They both—shockingly—laid down and started to try and sleep. I was amazed that they weren't putting up more of a fight. I sat down on the couch as soon as they were out and rubbed my temples.

"Children. Why children?" I muttered.

At that moment, the door opened to reveal Wanda Maximoff. She smiled at me sympathetically. "How has it been going?"

"Remarkably better than I could have anticipated," I admitted.

She flopped casually on the sofa next to me. "Even though they still have their powers?" she joked.

"Yeah. I'm shocked."

"You should probably go make sure Pietro hasn't run away."

A sense of panic gripped me and I rushed over to the door behind which the boys were sleeping in the cribs. Opening the door, I saw them both curled up in balls on their sides, sleeping peacefully. "They're okay," I whispered to Wanda, easing the door closed again. She smiled widely.

"Good. Let them sleep. I'll take over from here. You can stay if you want or you can go. I don't mind whichever you choose."

"As long as you wrangle them into submission, I'll stick around to keep them from sticking their fingers in electric sockets."

"Deal."

We talked quietly for about two hours before I heard a creak from the room next door. "Auntie Cass?" a little voice asked. I went over to see Steve sitting there in his stealth suit, hair rumpled. I took a quick picture on my phone and made a mental note to send it to Bucky when I got a chance. "I'm not tired anymore. Can I get up?" He held his arms out for me. I smirked, crossed to his crib, and pulled him out, resting him on my hip. He put his head on my shoulder—obviously still tired despite what he said—and put his arms around my neck, tiny-but-strong hands fisting into the collar of my shirt.

I took him out into the main room so as not to wake still-sleeping Pietro and sat him on my lap on the couch. Wanda watched with a grin as I rocked him back and forth in an attempt to either wake him up gently or put him back to sleep. He rested against my chest and snuggled into me. Wanda took a few pictures with my phone. With any luck the two men wouldn't remember any of this happened when Tony and Bruce finally figured out a way to reverse it, so I could tease them about being so flipping adorable.

Pietro woke up weeping and wailing about a half hour later. Wanda went in and brought him out, soothing him in moments. "There, there. It's alright. No one is going to hurt you here." Sniffling, her older-turned-younger brother looked up at her with watery eyes while Steve and I watched silently. The toddler on my lap didn't seem to know what to say, so he stayed silent.

"P-promise?" Pietro whimpered.

"I promise. It was just a bad dream."

 _I wish_ **this** _was just a bad dream,_ I thought sarcastically to myself as I watched my friend.

Wanda and I stayed with them well into the night. We had pizza for dinner—delivered by a very curious Hawkeye and Black Widow—we played around a little bit to exhaust them, and then they went down to sleep for the night.

I collapsed on the couch. "Wanda, I'm a linguist. I'm not cut out for this," I sighed. She chided me in Sokovian—earning a glare from me—and sat on the arm of the sofa near my feet.

"It doesn't matter if you're a linguist or a handler. Anyone can take care of a child if they love it enough. I know how much you care for both the captain and my brother. Perhaps tomorrow will be easier than today." She started humming a Sokovian lullaby as she drifted eerily to the door behind which the boys were dropping off. I closed my eyes, wondering if she was using her telepathy to ease me and the Avengers-turned-children to sleep. Given I had insomniac problems and was suddenly feeling very, _very_ tired—somewhere beyond exhausted—it wouldn't have surprised me.

I woke up the next morning to Steve and Pietro looking at me with wide eyes.

They were both adults again.

"Cass… wanna explain to us why we woke up in broken cribs?" Steve asked.

I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes. "Not really."

* * *

 **End Note: This one was so hilarious to write! I loved it!**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	61. Gold and Pure (L)

**Author's Note: Yes, I still write for Loki sometimes!**

 **61) Gold and Pure**

* * *

Aria liked to imagine she was important—daydreaming about being famous when her teacher was rambling on about something she already knew or didn't care about because it wouldn't be on the test. She knew it would probably never actually come to pass. She didn't have the same opportunities to be famous as some other people.

So when Heimdall declared her the greatest singer in all Nine Realms and Odin himself came to Earth to request her to sing at his wife's birthday celebration, she was quite shocked. Often she didn't sing in front of people—unless it was her school choir. Then she had a few solos.

But she wasn't going to say no to the king of Asgard. She valued her life too much.

And that was how she found herself awkwardly standing in front of a mirror with a few Asgardian teenage girls dressing her up for the formal evening.

They were all muttering to each other in another language, excitedly—though Aria wouldn't have been surprised if they were gossiping about how such a lowly Midgardian idiot managed to be the best singer in the Nine Realms. It didn't sound like that was the case, but it wouldn't have surprised her. If she was in their position that's probably what she would have been thinking.

Suddenly they all fled like a flock of birds, leaving her alone in the dressing room.

A knock echoed off the door. "Aria?" the booming voice of Thor asked. "Are you in there?"

She opened it. "Yeah."

"You look breathtaking," he complimented.

She blushed. "Thanks."

"Allow me to escort you to the celebration." He offered her his elbow.

"Okay." She took it and let him guide her through the massive pipe-organ palace to a very grand ballroom, full of nobility, gentry, and the royal family.

And then there was her—a lowly Midgard soul.

Thor took her right up to Odin, Frigga, and Loki. They all bowed to her respectfully—which made her feel super awkward. Things like this had never been her scene. She hadn't even gone to Senior Prom because she'd been so nervous about wearing a fancy dress and being surrounded by hundreds of dancing people. Feeling extremely out of place she shook the royal family's hands, noticing Loki staring at her the entire time. It only made her feel worse. She could sense his silent judgment. He was probably scornful that she was there.

But then came the moment of her performance.

She was ushered up some stairs and placed in the middle of a grand stage. Everyone was staring as a silver spotlight shone down on her, illuminating the pure-white dress she'd been forced into.

The gentle music started playing—drifting from somewhere she couldn't see. She closed her eyes and wished that she could be singing _Imagine Dragons_ instead. It would have made her feel so much less awkward to be singing Demons.

Her next wish was that she wouldn't screw up. If the whole night so far had been embarrassing, that would just be icing on the cake for her.

Taking a deep breath, she felt her throat flex, ready to sing.

The song was a simple melody in a high soprano range—also in Latin. It was one of Aria's favorite arias.

And she started, opening her eyes slowly. She did her best to keep the opera tones to a minimum, keeping it simple and pure. She preferred music that sounded that way and didn't care if the Asgardians didn't like it.

From where she was standing, she saw Loki's eyebrows raise, watching her intensely.

Frigga, Odin, and Thor were all smiling.

The youngest of the royal family stared at the Midgardian girl—Melody or whatever her name was. She wasn't exactly the epitome of beauty, but her voice was. She sounded like some sort of angel descended from Valhalla specifically for him. It didn't matter that she was there for his mother's birthday. She was there for him. Her golden voice echoed and swirled and danced through the ballroom, glorious and beautiful and meant to repair the tears in his soul and heart. After several moments of watching her intensely, he rolled his eyes into the back of his head so he could simply listen.

He didn't like rash decisions, but he figured he was probably in love with her.

So he kept staring, when he finally opened his eyes again, completely shamelessly.

 _Aria!_

Her name struck him like a bolt of lightning.

Yes… he quite liked the sound of that.

He was in love with Aria—the goddess of music and everything beautiful.

* * *

 **End Note: "Aria" is a solo in an opera. I almost named her Melody as a more obvious music allusion.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	62. Spook (C)

**Author's Note: So, someone on Tumblr requested I do a Clint X Reader. So that's this. But it was super awkward because Clint is so** ** _old_** **(I'm kind of kidding). My relationship with him is more like he's my strange, fictional uncle or something.**

 **62) Spook**

* * *

"Incoming!" you archer shouts. He does a front flip over the back of the couch and lands next to you. You give him a sarcastic look.

"Did you remember the popcorn?" you ask.

He curses. "No. Sorry. I knew I was forgetting something." He clambers back over the back of the couch, kisses the back your head, and disappears into the kitchen. When he rejoins you with a massive bowl of popcorn—there's probably three bags—he wraps one arm around your shoulders and sets the purple bowl between you. "Okay. It's my turn to pick… so I'm going to say… _Spook_." Hawkeye cackled and held your shoulders tighter.

You curse. _Spook_ was the film Tony'd had made a couple years ago. It was one of the most terrifying movies in existence—just how Tony wanted it. "Really, Clint? Why?"

"Because I like how you hug me, sit in my lap, hold my hand, and hide your face in my chest the whole time," he teases. You roll your eyes as he pulls the movie up and presses _Play_.

The thing about _Spook_ is you can't yell at the screen because the characters are being dumb. They do all the right things—they stick together, they have the right defenses, they know how to take down ghosts and ghouls.

And they all die anyway.

Which is probably why the movie is so freaking scary, knowing you should be able to survive but it's futile anyway.

So, instead of watching, you climb onto Clint's lap and bury your face in his chest. You can smell his musky cologne or aftershave or whatever he uses to smell nice and whatever laundry detergent he uses on his clothes. The scents combine in a way they probably shouldn't to make him smell like Clint. Steve and Tony could use the exact same combination and they wouldn't smell the same. It was unique to your archer—it is one of the _many_ things you love about it.

He rests his chin in your hair and watches the movie, completely apathetic to it—though in the back of your mind the first time you ever watched it and he shrieked like a little girl at the jump-scares.

Finally, after two hours of hiding from the TV, you pull away. Clint is grinning at you.

"Shut up," you mutter.

"I didn't say anything!" he protests.

"Maybe not, but you're thinking it," you retort.

"C'mon, honey," he complains. "You're no fun!"

"Neither are you when you pick _Spook_."

"Okay. Fair point."

He wraps one arm around your waist and the other under your knees. Almost effortlessly he picks you up and carries you out of the living room and into your bedroom. He yanks his arms out from under you and you fall onto the bed.

You chuck a pillow at him.

He laughs and flops onto the mattress next to you. He kisses your nose. "You love me," he teases.

"Fortunately for you," you retort, kissing him on the lips. He chuckles.

"How about we just stay right here all night—and then all day tomorrow. The team's out…" Clint trails off, leaving a line of kisses around the circumference of your face. You giggle and slide your fingers through his soft light brown hair. He whispers your name gently as his fingers caress your chin and gently brush over your cheekbones.

"I think I'd be okay with that," you whisper, digging your fingers into the back of his head for a possessive grip. "You're mine."

"And you're mine."

After a few hours of just kissing on the bedspread, the two of you fall asleep, limbs hopelessly tangled together and wrapped in each other's warmth.

The sleep doesn't last long though because _Spook_ makes its way into your subconscious. At about three in the morning you wake up, screaming, panting, and gasping from a nightmare. Clint jolts awake next to you and wraps his arms around your shoulders. "Shh, shh, shh, sweetheart. It's okay. I got you. You're safe. Nothing can harm you while I'm here with you. See? You're in the Tower, you're in my arms, and everything is alright," your archer soothes gently, stroking your hair and holding your face into his chest. His powerful heartbeat thumps in your ears. You sigh heavily into his soft cotton shirt, still breathing heavily. Adrenaline from fear rushes through your veins.

"When Tony gets back from that mission, I'm going to kill him for having _Spook_ made," you decide angrily.

Clint chuckles. "That's my girl," he murmurs into your hair, running his fingers through it. You feel a tiny grin tug on the corners of your lips. His dry sense of humor was one of the many reasons you'd fallen in love with him. "I'll be right back." He slides off of the bedspread and vanishes for several long minutes. You curl up around yourself, feeling the fear slowly edge out of your system. Your heart rate slows down and the cold sweat running down your spine stops.

Suddenly an arrow sprouts from an old target hanging on the wall. "That's supposed to be for decoration!" you complain. Clint cackles and lopes in.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he remarks. There is no bow or arrows on him. "Though, whoever shot that has great aim! Look at the shaft!" He gestures dramatically to the black stick poking out from the center of the target. You roll your eyes and turn to look.

Something glimmers on the shaft.

Your mouth drops open.

It's a ring.

An engagement ring.

"Clint…" you whisper, clambering out of bed.

He's on one knee when you turn to look at him. "I couldn't think of anyone better to spend the rest of my life with," he says. He smiles an emphatically says your full name, adding on at the end, "Will you marry me?"

You drop to your knees and give him a kiss, eyes watering. "Yes! Of course."

He jumps up, pulls the arrow out of the target, and slides the ring off. He slips it over your finger.

The rest of the team bursts in at that moment. "SHE SAID YES!" Tony shouted.

You gasp and shriek, the last vestiges of that stupid horror movie making you believe—briefly—that this moment was interrupted by monsters or something.

You kiss Clint again as he laughs.

Without a doubt, this is the best moment of your life.

* * *

 **End Note: So... yeah. Make of it what you will.**


	63. Super Soldier 20 (Miss America) (Team)

**Author's Note: I enjoyed this one - a "whole team" endeavor. I wrote it because of the scene in the first Captain America movie where he's getting his blood drawn.**

 **63) Super Soldier 2.0 (Miss America)**

* * *

I was lying on the table in a sports bra and spandex shorts. My arms and legs were tied down too and I felt bored, fighting off my fear.

"We will proceed, then," someone remarked.

The needles were inserted in my thighs, upper arms, chest, back, and abdomen. They quickly drained me of about a pint-and-a-half of blood—making me feel very woozy—before I heard another voice chime in. "Mass blood transfusion in three… two… one!"

And someone else's blood surged through my system.

It felt like fire, burning through my veins.

"Now, Tony!" someone else ordered.

The table lifted so it was straight up. I slid down it a little, my very unimpressive, skinny 4'11" body not taking up anything of the seven-foot space. The thing closed around me and the weird lights turned on. I squeezed my eyes shut tighter and tighter as the light grew brighter and brighter. I could hear muffled voices through the strange steel trap around me.

The fire intensified to a raging storm of lightning and bees—hornets or wasps to be exact.

Before I could stop it, a shout of pain ripped through my throat.

"Stop!" the voice of the tall blond dude in the spangled T-shirt shouted.

"No!" I cried out. "I can do this!"

"Kid I know you think you can do this because I could, but you don't have to," short-haired blondie called through the steel.

"I can do it!" I ground out. "Don't assume I can't!"

"Keep going Tony," a softer voice—the dude with the dark hair and reading glasses (what was his last name? Billboard?)—instructed.

"So what is this going to do to her?" the archer-dude in the purple shirt asked.

"My version of the serum made my body burn hotter than normal people's. The Winter Soldier's version made him run cold," Spangle-Dude told Purple-Dude. "Since we have the same blood type and she's AB—the universal recipient—we're giving her a transfusion of both of our blood." I focused on his warm voice to block out the pain. "With any luck her body temperature will remain normal, give her my strength, and also Bucky's endurance."

"Why not your endurance?" That was Redhead-Lady. (None of them told me their names.) "I mean, you've got some _great_ staying-power, Rogers."

"Mine is good," Spangles agreed. "But Bucky could survive cryo-freeze, an experimental prosthetic, and falling several hundred feet into a ravine, in the dead of winter. If you guys think _I'm_ some sort of never-dying machine, wait until you guys see the Winter Soldier in action." The light was so blinding that even squeezed as tightly shut as my eyes could be, they could still see it.

The pain was still wracking my body, but I felt what was happening—I could feel my muscles growing stronger. I could feel myself becoming some sort of super soldier.

Why they wanted to experiment making a new super soldier on a seventeen-year-old girl who hadn't grown since she was about twelve was a mystery to me.

"Thanks, Steve" a voice muttered. I think that one was Long-Hair-Metal-Arm-Guy.

"I mean it Bucky. You may not be stronger than me—"

"That's debatable," Redhead-Lady remarked sarcastically.

"—but you can certainly outlast me," Spangles— _Steve_ —finished.

Suddenly the lights shut off and the pain eased. I felt weak, exhausted, and thoroughly…

Taller?

"Microwave ding!" the dark-haired old man with the goatee called in a singsong voice. "Your super soldier is ready!"

"Hopefully no one left the foil on her like they did on Bucky," Purple-Archer-Man commented sarcastically.

"You know what Barton?" Metal-Arm snapped. There was a loud _thud_ and a shriek. I assumed he chucked the archer across the room.

I snickered as the steel contraption opened.

Looking at my reflection in the mirror even before I got out of the metal box, my eyebrows raised.

I looked _good_.

I was probably 5'11" (HOLY COW!) with muscles that were defined but not weird like body-builders. I didn't have the powerful "specimen" look of Spangles and Long-Haired-Shakespeare-Blondie, but I looked _normal_ for the first time in my life. I wasn't the scrawny, shrimp of a little girl who got picked on in school. I looked like a woman who could handle herself.

Again, I looked _good._

Shakespeare-Blondie and Metal-Arm helped me off the contraption onto the ground. "I congratulate everyone on the success!" Shakespeare-Blondie announced loudly. "Madam America, you look remarkably more powerful."

"Thanks," I panted. I was breathing heavily through the pain.

"How do you feel?" Spangled-Blondie— _Steve_ —asked.

"Awesome!" I exclaimed, pushing Metal-Arm and Shakespeare-Blondie away. "Also taller."

"Wow. I… can't believe the blood transfusion and Vita Rays worked," Brown-Eyed-Goatee-Man murmured, in awe of my new body. Heck, I was in awe of it. I had never been particularly proud of my body before. I was always _too_ skinny and too short growing up. The easy picking. And suddenly I had muscle and an actual figure—I didn't look like a skinny 2X4 plank of wood anymore.

"Neither can I," Steve commented, disbelieving. "I'm very impressed that it did though."

"Uh-huh," Metal-Arm agreed emphatically, looking me up and down in a very obvious _checking-you-out_ kind of way.

I turned to Shakespeare-Blondie. "I'm not Madam America, by the way. I think the name they chose for me was _Miss_ America."

* * *

 **End Note: I thought this one was pretty good.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	64. Fifteen Years (P-Wanda)(BROTP)

**Author's Note: This one doesn't have a nameless OC so it didn't get a whole lot of Tumblr love, but who the heck cares because I think it's pretty good!**

 **64) Fifteen Years**

* * *

Wanda wandered the streets of the Sokovian city, peering into alleys in search of her brother. Usually no more than a few feet from her side, he had disappeared. "Pietro _?"_ she called quietly, light blue eyes unblinking so she wouldn't miss anything. Her mind was reaching out, scanning the other voices around her. Where was he and why had he vanished? She stepped lightly, careful not to make any noise—particularly not with her boots. The unrest in Sokovia wasn't over, despite what everyone said. She could be in very deep trouble if she took a wrong turn.

Or she would have been, had she not had her powers.

She headed in the general directions of Pietro's favorite haunts—the abandoned theater, the ruins of their old apartment building, the corner where he and his teenage friends used to pal around—but still Wanda couldn't find him.

It was immensely frustrating.

She cursed in her native language and started to walk towards the fort on the hill where they'd first developed their powers—the HYDRA base. Maybe he was there.

Then she heard the whistling from across the road and rolled her eyes.

"Hey darling! Where you headed?"

She ignored the group of men and kept walking.

"Aw! Sweetheart! Don't be like that!"

Her eyes flashed red in her frustration and she marched across the road to where the men were.

"That's more like it!"

A wave of red light from her hands swallowed all of them. Their eyes flickered crimson and they suddenly all stared straight ahead of them—gazing unblinkingly into the faces of their worst nightmares. She smirked with satisfaction and marched the rest of the way out of the city. Once she swapped buildings for forest she started shouting for her brother, voice louder and confident. "Pietro! Pietro? If you're playing some stupid game I promise you are going to be seeing spiders, snakes, and Legos in your path for the next three weeks!" she called. She pressed on when there came no response.

Around fifteen minutes later, when she was finally nearing the fort, she heard it.

Gentle sobbing.

She closed her eyes and cast out her mind. It was her brother, which she knew because she could recognize that choked noise anywhere, but she wanted to know why and where he was. Cautiously Wanda tread over the dirt and dead leaves that had been there since last autumn and made her way off the path, through the trees, and to her brother.

His back was pressed against the trunk of a thick tree with his head bowed, knees pulled up to his chest, and arms wrapped around them. His silver-white curls shuddered and shivered with his shaky breaths. A tiny square of paper—slightly boxed around the edges—was clenched between his right thumb and forefinger. It shook with his trembling hands. Wanda knelt next to him—grateful her boots went above her knees—and rested her hand gently on his shoulder.

Pietro jumped at her touch and was almost instantly several meters away. He sped back to her and sat down. His face was covered with tear tracks and his electric blue eyes were ringed with red. He'd been sobbing in the gross, ugly way where he couldn't stop. "Fifteen years to the day," he muttered.

"I know. That's why I came looking for you," she replied, voice soft. He took her hand and pressed it against his forehead, passing her the piece of paper in his fingers.

It was a little picture of their parents and themselves when they were much younger children—ten years old to be exact. Apart from the difference in hair color and the obvious signs of puberty and aging, Pietro looked almost the same. Except as a ten-year-old he had a round, pudgy face and a not-so-sassy smile. Wanda, for the most part, looked the same as well, apart from her own maturity. She looked closer to their mother and Pietro to their father. Pietro had the same curly-wavy texture to his hair as his father and Wanda had the same face-shape as her mother. In the picture, they were all wearing a pale shade of blue. It went with Mrs. Maximoff and Wanda's eyes the best. Pietro and Wanda were sitting very close together with their parents kneeling behind them, hands on their shoulders. They were all grinning like all they could ever want was each other.

That had been ripped from the twins when the first shell hit and the hole opened in the floor.

"It's been fifteen years," Pietro choked out. Wanda ran her fingers through her brother's thick hair—it was one of the only things that comforted him. Their mother had done that to him when he was a scared little kid. She'd played with his hair while she'd soothed him. Wanda had picked up on it and taken over when their mother was gone.

"I know. I miss them too. But we're here now—and we have to make the most of what we have. That's what they would want, is it not?" she asked tenderly, giving him the picture back. He shoved it in his jacket pocket and gave the more petite, willowy form of his sister a hug.

"Now we have these… _powers_. These _gifts_. What would they want us to do with them?"

"I don't know. Do our best to make a difference," she suggested. "Whether we do it for good or for evil is up to us. I know you're bitter—"

"I'm not bitter," Pietro interrupted bitterly, with a bitter expression on his tear-soaked face.

"—but we're all each other has left. So let's do our best not to self-destruct, yes?" Wanda finished as though her twin brother hadn't spoken. "I don't want to lose you too."

Pietro grunted. "No promises," he muttered darkly, wiping away the salt stains with his sleeve.

* * *

 **End Note: As always, don't be afraid to tell me what you think!**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	65. Height (S-Peggy)

**Author's Note: This is a short drabble based on my headcanon involving "Barely-Post-Serum-Steve-Rogers" in which he hits his head on stuff because he isn't used to being so dang tall.**

 **65) Height**

* * *

It took Steve about forty-five minutes after he got the serum to start smacking his head on things.

Most guys his age ended up at least five-nine or taller—Bucky was six-foot—but Steve had always been a scant five-four. He was skinny and frail. More than once Bucky had given up his coat for Steve to wear in the frigid Brooklyn winters. The brunet had never minded. He'd just stuff his hands in his pockets and continue whatever it was they were up to. Steve had always been immensely grateful—particularly because Bucky radiated heat like a furnace so his coats were always too big and felt like being wrapped up in a warm blanket.

The SSR had come to find him at the docks. Peggy was in the passenger side, looking impressed but also a bit like a mother who caught her child covered in dirt with a lollipop in his mouth. "In," was the only word she said.

Steve opened the back passenger-side door and started to get in.

 _Whack!_ His head—now ten inches taller than he was used to—hit the door frame, literally hard enough to bounce off. He cussed quietly under his breath—because Peggy was literally two feet away—and ducked his head to get in. He wasn't used to having so much extra height. As he sat in the back of the car, he rubbed the side of his head. It was throbbing. He hit it a lot harder than he thought.

They got back to the antiques shop and parked a little way up the road. Steve was still wet. As he climbed out, he hit his head on the ceiling of the car—the top this time instead of the side.

His cuss was much louder that time, earning him an amused glance from Peggy and the driver.

"Right," Peggy remarked. She turned briskly on her heel and strode back to the shop.

Steve, now rubbing the top of his head, followed her like a sheepish puppy.

Since his head was bowed in shame he didn't notice the branches until they were attacking his face. His arms swatted all around his head—which did nothing but cause twigs to lash back and smack him with a momentum-filled vengeance. "For pity's sake!" Steve hissed as he finally managed to duck under all the flying leaves. When he looked up, hunched over like he used to when he was freezing in the winter—this time with embarrassment and out of necessity—he saw Peggy grinning with one half of her closed mouth, looking amused.

Bent over, he made his way out from under the small tree and straightened up. An hour ago he wouldn't have had the same problems. "I can see you're still adjusting," Peggy remarked. Steve felt a small blush tint his cheekbones.

"Shall we?" he asked, changing the subject. He flourished his hand toward the door to the shop.

Peggy gave him a look that clearly read, "This isn't the last you'll hear of this," and strode ahead of him. Still feeling embarrassed, Steve trailed after her.

* * *

 **End Note: I pray I wrote Peggy correctly. I was going for a very sort of dapper-British vibe. Or even just a British vibe. Which is really hard given I'm 100% American...**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	66. Corporal Harley Davidson (S)

**Author's Note: Well... can't think of much. I wrote this one while going through writer's block. Please forgive me.**

 **66) Corporal Harley Davidson**

* * *

"Steve!" I called, jogging up the corridor to catch up with him, helmet dangling limply from my hand. "Can I take your Harley out for a ride? Please?" I had a bullet bike that I loved and used all the time, but I _loved_ that awesome Harley of his. I'd only ridden on the back of it a few times, but it was so amazing that I wanted to go out on my own.

He raised one dirty blond eyebrow and opened his mouth to speak before he was interrupted by his dark-haired best friend, Barnes. "You have neither the strength nor the balance for that bike, kiddo," the former assassin admonished.

"Oh bite me," I snapped. "I do too."

Steve chuckled. "As long as you're careful you can take it out for an hour. But make sure to get back here by two because I'm going to need it."

Giddily I bounced up and down for a second before giving him a hug. "Thank you!" I squealed.

"And I want to ride your bullet bike sometime!"

"Done!" I took off down the hallway.

I kept my senses on the captain and his buddy after I left, listening in, thankful for my powers. "You really think she can handle that bike? I can barely do it and I'm a lot stronger than her." Bucky sounded skeptical. As I made my way to the garage, I rolled my eyes. Rude old man didn't think I could do it. Well I'd prove him wrong.

"She'll be fine. You're just underestimating her abilities."

Bucky scoffed. "No I'm not. I'm being realistic."

"No you're not. That little wisp of a girl is a lot stronger than she looks."

I pulled my hearing away from them as I hit the garage. For once, I ran past my beautiful black bullet bike—nicknamed AK—and jumped on the Harley. I'd nicknamed it Corporal Davidson. I yanked my helmet over my head, zipped up my leather jacket, grabbed the handles, and kicked the bike to life.

It roared through the silence.

Adrenaline and excitement surged through me. I grinned giddily and revved the engine. The wheels under me started moving. I pulled my feet up and rode away, laughing excitedly.

I had to hand it to Barnes though—there was an element of truth to me not having the strength to handle the bike. It was heavy and unwieldy. My balance on the thing was fine but its handling was a bit difficult. It was like that one bike on Mario Kart that always ended up going off-road no matter how good the driver was. But heck, I was bound and determined to get this thing to be submissive to me. I probably wouldn't drive it for an hour though. After only a few moments of driving it down the long, abandoned road the led to the New Avengers Facility, my arms were tired.

But then I got the hang of it. Corporal Davidson was an upright bike. My AK was a bend-forward bike. Once I stopped sitting on it wrong, it was way better.

About a half hour later, I braked in the garage, parked it, turned it off, and jumped off, pulling my helmet off. "Whoo!" I called. Abruptly I cut my celebrating short. Barnes was leaned against a black SUV, arms folded. "If you're here to sass me, I didn't damage the bike at all."

"I'm here to apologize, actually." I raised my eyebrows. "You're stronger than you look."

I smiled. "Thanks."

"I'm also here to do this." He dropped a black bag over my head.

"Oi!" I protested before I smelled something sickly sweet and blacked out. _He was kidnapping me! What?!_

I woke up sitting at a table. The bag was still over my head.

"Hello?!" I called.

The fabric was pulled away to reveal…

Steve Rogers!

"Hi kid. Sorry for the theatrics. Didn't think you'd agree to this otherwise."

"You and Barnes need to stop calling me 'kid'," I muttered. "Wait. Agree to what?"

Steve grinned. "Dinner!"

I looked around at the area I'd woken in. It was part of the New Avengers Facility—I could tell by the architecture even though I'd never seen this spot in particular before. There was a table set for two with candles and my particular favorite meal to have for dinner. I smirked. "You know, you could have just asked, Cap," I remarked. "I never turn down a first date."

* * *

 **End Note: *smiles widely* Yup.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	67. Rehabilitation (P)

**Author's Note: This was another one a lot of people requested a Part 2 for... but I could never figure one out. Maybe in the future. In the meantime, hope you like!**

 **67) Rehabilitation**

* * *

"Mr. Maximoff," I remarked, walking into the infirmary room in a lab coat with a clipboard on one arm. A young man was lying on a gurney in a hospital gown with his eyes closed. He was very beat up. "My name is Doctor Juliet Sage and I'm going to be your rehab therapist."

"Rehab?" the man with the silver-white curly hair asked, voice accented. Sokovian. He didn't even open his eyes or look at me.

"Rehabilitation," I supplied. "I'm here for physical, mental, and emotional therapy."

"Why?"

"To get you back on your feet."

He finally opened his eyes—they were electric blue—and looked me up and down. "Hello, beautiful," he commented. "What kind of emotional therapy do you do?"

I gave him a sassy grin. "Mr. Maximoff. Do not assume that anything you say to me is original. I can assure you that I have heard it all before. You are neither my first, nor my worst rodeo. My worst rodeo was another friend of the Avengers who was physically in top shape but emotionally and mentally broken and stripped. Had the captain not taken out HYDRA when he did, you could very well have turned into what he became. I didn't think I had the capacity to fix him. But I fixed him anyway. See, unlike other therapists who concentrate on one branch of rehabilitation, requiring patients to have two or three therapists at one time, I concentrate on all of them. I believe that makes the process easier. More stable. One single solid rock in a never-ending sea. So, my relationship with you is going to be strictly professional. If you decide you can't do that, we will part ways."

The guy was probably my age. He looked about twenty-five—so maybe he was a little older. "Why you?" he asked.

"The Avengers trust me—or rather, two of the Avengers trust me so the others do as well."

"Which ones?"

"Black Widow and Captain America," I answered.

"Black Widow trusts no one," Pietro Maximoff pointed out.

I smirked. "She doesn't trust me as a person. She trusts my methods as a therapist. She and the captain have faith that I can heal you and let you back on the team. As does your sister." I pretended to look over his file in my hands as he tensed up.

"Wanda?! Where is she?!" he demanded.

"Careful," I warned. "If your heart rate gets too high your IV will release a sedative that even Thor can't shake." I turned a page on the clipboard. "Miss Maximoff is being kept away from you at my own request. She's absolutely fine and perfectly safe—I promise you that. However, until I deem you emotionally and mentally healthy _enough_ you will not be allowed to see her. It's good motivation for people like you to actually listen to me."

"'People like me'?" Pietro quoted. "What kind of person am I?"

"You have a quick temper. In fact, if what everyone's saying is true, everything about you is quick. Which means I'm hoping for a speedy recovery. The more you cooperate, the sooner you can see your sister. How's that?"

"How about I just get up and see her now?" he demanded, frustrated.

"You don't have the strength in your knees or your ankles," I replied, voice void of emotion. "Also you have a healing bullet wound in your thigh. You wouldn't be able to get out of bed without falling. I don't care what your powers are. You're staying right here. And who knows? You may already be mentally and emotionally healthy enough to see Wanda. I just need to make sure of that."

"So, what you're saying is, cooperate."

"Exactly. You catch on fast."

"I feel like you're making puns at my expense."

"I'm a professional, Mr. Maximoff. I don't make puns at my patient's expense. No matter how tempting it may be or how much material I have to work with. So let's start. What's your full name?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"A standard one for those who sustain concussions."

"Fine. Full name is Pietro Django Maximoff."

"Age?"

"Twenty-five."

Yeah, he was a bit older than me. And already giving me a headache. Getting him back to ship-shape was going to take a while "Okay. Good start." I spent the rest of the afternoon deeply surveying his mind by his answers to my questions.

He seemed healthy enough—mentally and emotionally anyway. The several dozen bandages around his torso and upper legs showed that physically he wasn't healthy yet.

I pursed my lips. "What do you remember about dying?" I asked.

"I didn't die. Obviously. Because I'm here."

"You were 'legally' dead for two hours before the surgeons swooped in and restarted your heart. You were dead."

"Fine. I remember darkness. Pain. Fear. But I was satisfied. I had done something good for my country and then the world. As everything faded to black all I could think of was how my sister would survive in such a cruel, changed world without me. Now she doesn't have to." He shrugged nonchalantly and started toying with the hem of his hospital gown sleeve. "Can I rest now, doctor? It's been a long day."

"Of course. I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Maximoff."

"Goodbye Doctor Sage."

"You can call me Juliet."

"Then you can call me Pietro."

"Alright. Have a good night, Pietro."

"You too, Juliet."

I left the hospital room, putting a note on the door for Wanda politely requesting she not visit her brother just yet, and went to my own bedroom in the New Avengers Facility. Since I was only staying for a while for Pietro's rehab, it was a small room. I didn't mind. I just got ready for bed and tucked myself in.

It was around two in the morning when there came a frantic knock on my door. "Doctor?" Captain Rogers's voice demanded. I grunted and rolled out of bed, opening the door. "It's Bucky. I can't get him to calm down. He can't remember who he is."

I sighed sleepily and ran my fingers through my messy hair. "It's a relapse. Give me a second." I put a jacket on over my tank top and flannel pajama trousers and grabbed a plastic bag off my desk. "Okay. Let's go." Steve led me down several familiar corridors to an apartment area I'd spent a lot of time in. The door was bolted shut and I could hear a ruckus on the other side. Steve stood behind me and I knocked gently, trying to come off as nonthreatening. "Sergeant Barnes? It's Juliet. Are you alright? Let me in please."

"Who's Sergeant Barnes?" the voice on the other side snapped.

"You are," I retorted. "Your name is Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. You preferred the nickname Bucky." I waited for a moment. "I'm here to help you. Please open the door."

After a moment, I heard the deadbolt slide out of its position. The door eased open.

All I did was pass him the plastic bag. "You know what to do with this. It'll help you calm down," I told him. He opened the mouth of the bag and pulled out its contents: two knitting needles and skein of purple yarn. His confused eyes stared at it for a moment before they turned up to gaze at me. I gave him a comforting grin and a nod. "It's alright. You're okay. And you're safe here."

He nodded back and withdrew into his apartment.

"How did you know that would work?" Steve asked as he escorted me back to my room.

"I used knitting and coloring as part of his therapy. Repetitive motions are remarkably relaxing. Not as much as reading a book, but you'd be surprised at how much more improved he was after he finished coloring a picture of a tree and knitting a scarf. He's better at knitting because it requires both hands and I had to teach him how to not mind his prosthetic arm. There's a reason his rehab took a long time. I don't imagine Mr. Maximoff's will be similarly lengthy. His is more physical. Sergeant Barnes's was mental and emotional."

"We owe you so much, Doctor Sage. Me especially."

I grinned as we reached my room. "Don't worry about it. I like what I do."

"No, Juliet. I'm serious. Without you, I would have lost the one person who means more to me than anyone else, and so would Wanda. And Pietro may not be _the_ universe according to anyone but himself, but he's _Wanda's_ universe."

I put my hands on the captain's powerful shoulders. "And _that_ , Steve, is why I do what I do."

* * *

 **End Note: Teehee. I _love_ putting Bucky and Pietro in one-shots together. I _really_ hope they meet at some point in the MCU. ('Cause let's face it guys, Pietro isn't actually dead and we all know it right? Or is that just me in denial? It's probably just me in denial...) Also, knitting, coloring, and reading are all actual things to help with therapy. That's about all I know. I'm not a therapist so forgive me for being vague.**

 **To "AvengerFrost": It's always nice to hear that someone else has never been kissed! Thank you so much for the review!**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	68. Happy Birthday! (L)

**Author's Note: This was a request for a Tumblr user who asked if I could write a one-shot for her birthday. My first request if I recall correctly.**

 **68) Happy Birthday!**

* * *

You wake up to your alarm ringing lightly and scrunch your eyebrows. You could have sworn you turned that thing off.

You weren't required to wake up early for training on your birthday.

Not that you've told the others it's your birthday, of course. You don't want them to make a big deal about it. They have better things to do. Sure if you tell them Tony will throw a party together in twenty minutes and fifty-thousand people will still show up, but they got back from a mission to Budapest _yesterday_ and they were all exhausted. They didn't tell you what happened in Budapest, even though they tell you everything, so you guess it must have been pretty bad.

Either way, you're up now. You turn off your alarm and roll out of bed. You decide not to leave your room for a while though, because if you're seen in the corridors, someone will ask why you're not in training and then you'll have to tell them.

You listen to your favorite music for several hours, until the sun is well and truly up outside your window. You were so engrossed in it that you hadn't heard someone outside your room.

As you choose to finally leave—not caring that you were still in your pajamas and your hair was probably a mess—you see a note taped to your door. Curiously you pull it off and unfold the lined piece of paper. Before even reading the words you know exactly which Avengers' handwriting it is. Only Captain America has such precise, old-fashioned penmanship. Even Thor's isn't as… beautiful.

 _Hey kiddo,_ the note reads. _We didn't want to wake you up after your alarm must not have gone off. We got a call from Fury asking if we could stop by Washington DC for a quick visit. So that's where we'll be. After that we may stop by Clint's farm to say hi to Laura and the kids. Call/text us if you want us to come pick you up on the way there—I know you haven't seen them for a while. Hope you have a great day! Sorry we aren't there—again. We seem to leave you alone a lot. Love you, **Steve** —PS, I know it's your birthday but I haven't told anyone. Sorry we can't be there. But maybe it's a good thing we're gone. Tony would freak out. So you can celebrate any way you want. Happy Birthday!_

You smile and set the note on your bed. Now you don't have to get dressed. As you leave your room and head to the kitchen, you ponder the note. To be honest you're not particularly shocked that Steve remembered your birthday—but you're also not shocked that he couldn't be in the Tower for it. Out of the entire team he's definitely the one who's treated you the best. Clint treats you like a daughter, Tony, Bruce, Natasha, and Thor like a niece. But Steve treats you like a lady—or a little sister.

Still, you're fine celebrating on your own. Maybe you'll leave the Tower later and go buy yourself a whole cake to eat by yourself—maybe even an ice cream cake.

You're not sure. There are quite a few possibilities now that you're all alone.

You're so wrapped up in your thoughts that you don't realize that you're _not_ all alone when you step into the kitchen.

Loki doesn't take kindly to being blanked.

He's leaned against the counter, nonchalant and nearing sarcastic.

You don't even notice. Just walk past him to the fridge. You open it and look around inside, trying to pick a good breakfast while his pale, icy blue eyes glare daggers at your back. Still you don't see him even though the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

But, being a trickster god, he decides to use your own distraction to his advantage.

Silently, on tiptoe, he creeps toward you. When he's so close he can smell your shampoo, he grabs your sides. " ** _HAPPY BIRTHDAY_**!" he shouts at the top of his lungs.

Nothing should have surprised you anymore—but that did. You shriek and whirl around.

Magic confetti in all shades of green rain down on you, landing in your hair and resting on your shoulders. Loki is laughing and smiling while your heart rate slows down. When you finally understand what happened, your shoulders relax and you give his wiry frame a hug. "You remembered!" For some reason that kind of surprised you too. Why would a god—who definitely had better things to do—take time to come see you?

"Of course I remembered, dear-heart," he replied, almost sounding offended. "How could I forget?"

"Well, you _do_ have better things to do—" you start to point out before he interrupts.

" _Nothing_ is better than celebrating your birthday," he cuts in. A mischievous grin slides up his lips and he looks around him. "I assume the dolts who call themselves the Avengers are gone for the day so we can reign this castle however we wish?" His eyes flick down to you and for a moment their icy blue glimmers with green.

You feel your own grin pulling up your face. "You're assuming correctly," you reply.

"Well, then, my queen, we cannot have you wearing that," he remarks. For a moment you're almost offended—what was wrong with your pajamas?—but then he flicks his wrist.

A green shimmer passes over you. In the reflection of the window you see your bedhead vanish—replaced by a grand, queenly hairdo—and your pajamas get replaced by a vibrant green gown that is fairly simple but elegant. Definitely royal-looking.

Loki twists his hands around in a quick circle and makes a crown. He sets it in your hair.

"This is what you should look like every birthday," he decides. With another turn of his wrist, he holds a cupcake in front of you—your favorite kind with a large frosting glob on top in the shape of a blood red rose. "Catch me if you can." With a wink, he vanishes. Your mouth drops open in amused surprise and you rush out of the kitchen—thankful he left you barefoot instead of giving you terrible heels that would ache to run around in.

He's done this before when you're left alone in the Tower together. You know where he'll be.

The balcony.

So, about a hundred stories up, you run out. He's holding the cupcake dangerously close to his mouth. You know he won't eat it—he's just taunting you. You step over to him and snatch it from his hand. Before he can protest you shove a bite into your mouth. It tastes wonderful and leaves a huge amount of frosting on your face.

Deciding two can play at his game, you hold the cupcake behind you, grab the collar of his armor, and yank him to you. You plant a messy, frosting-loaded kiss on his mouth.

Cackling at the look on his face—a mix of surprise and affronted—you take another bite of the cupcake. "This is delicious," you tell him.

He snares an arm around your waist. "So are you, my queen," he murmurs in your ear before giving you a very passionate kiss. You can't help but giggle. This was, without a doubt, the best birthday ever. You push your lips harder against his, a feeling of elation rippling through both of you.

For the next several hours, the two of you chase each other around the empty Avengers Tower, stepping on each other's heels, playing tag and hide-and-seek until you are both exhausted. At some point you have a balloon and confetti fight because the Tower is littered with green bits of paper and half-blown balloons.

Around sunset, somehow you end up curled against Loki's side on the sofa in the main room, his arm around your shoulders, and both of you eating ice cream with an episode of a TV show playing from Netflix on the massive TV. The ice cream is the kind that is so good you could definitely devour it in seconds but part of you doesn't want to because you also wanted to savor each and every bite. So, as you slowly put spoonful after spoonful in your mouth, you relax against his side. Even though he offers very little warmth—being a Frost Giant in disguise and all—his skinny body is comfortable. You feel like you were born to fit against him. Like you two are made to cuddle each other.

You give him a cold, ice-cream-sticky kiss on his mouth and sigh as you nuzzle his shoulder.

He strokes your hair, humming an eerie lullaby. You're exhausted, eyes blankly staring at the plates and forks littered with cake crumbs. You're not sure if you remember eating the cake, but you must have because the evidence is right there. A small grin tugs on the corners of your lips. You're sitting in some sort of heaven, right now. You can't ask for a better birthday. Your eyes flutter closed as you listen to Loki humming to the beat of his own heart.

The door to the party room bursts open. "HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" the team shouts, rushing in.

When they see you've obviously already celebrated, they turn red in the face. You see distrust and dislike in the eyes of the team as they take notice who you have partied with.

Clint is the first to leave. Natasha and Tony follow soon afterward. Bruce and Thor go next, leaving Steve standing there, awkwardly, all alone. He raises one hand in a very self-conscious greeting. "I'll… uh… let you get back to… whatever it is you're doing," he mutters, retreating.

Loki rolls his eyes once they're gone. "They're all half-witted idiots," he decides.

You snicker. You love the team, they're good people, but you have to admit he's got a point.

"That's why I chose you," you comment.

He gives you a kiss, cold and ice-cream-sticky, right on your lips. You smile, tired but joyful.

"Happy birthday, my love," he murmurs gently.

* * *

 **End Note: Well, I thought it was pretty cute. This is currently the last of my Loki works. Maybe in a while I'll start them up again. I don't know. *shrugs* (Also, callieandjack, yes, at some point I do need to get myself a man. We'll see if that happens.)**

 **Thanks for reading! Hope you liked!**

 **~Cass**


	69. Merry Christmas! (SB)

**Author's Note: I know I said I was taking a break from all the Bucky ones I wrote (and honestly I didn't mean for them to get so out of control I promise), but it's Christmas. I'm putting this one up. It's also snowing outside where I am so... yay.**

 **69) Merry Christmas!**

* * *

There was no such thing as holidays with HYDRA. The Winter Soldier had never been given time out of his cryofreeze capsule to celebrate anything.

So that meant Steve and I were going all out to give Bucky the Christmas he deserved.

Both he and Steve were protestant, I was Christian as well, I'm just not telling _you_ which denomination because y'all would like hate on me or something like, "Wow—she's _that_ denomination? Ugh!" So, no. Keeping that to myself, thanks. But they don't mind me telling you that they're protestant—it's on their dog-tags.

It was Christmas Eve and Steve and I were running around Bucky's apartment, decorating. The assassin who lived there couldn't refuse me anything, so when I asked if he'd run to Starbucks and grab me a hot chocolate and him a coffee while I made us something to eat, he hopped right to it. The moment he was gone Steve had climbed through the window I'd opened and passed me the mini tree in a box that he'd brought, a coffee for him balanced on top of it. I unearthed the ornaments and lights from the backpack I'd brought with me while he pulled presents out of his own backpack. Steve was—thankfully—faster than normal people. The nearest Starbucks to Bucky's apartment was about a five minute walk. So we had maybe fifteen minutes to do _everything_.

Steve threw the tree together while I made some nice dinner for the three of us. Potatoes I'd cooked earlier and kept in one of those bags that kept in either heat or cold depending on what was in it in my backpack. Bringing a backpack with me to Bucky's wasn't uncommon so he hadn't even questioned it. Also chicken, pre-cooked by yours truly, in the same bag. Rolls, and a few other things I always made sure Bucky kept in stock—like vegetables.

When Steve was done with the tree he set the table—including a festive tablecloth and a couple fake candles. He put the gifts he brought under the small tree.

I set mugs next to the normal glasses so we could pour our hot beverages into them and doled out food onto the plates—making sure to pile lots of extra onto both super-soldiers' because of their increased metabolisms.

"Think we're ready?" I asked, hanging a wreath from the window with a suction cup as Steve draped some string lights—fairy lights—over the picture frames Bucky had hanging on the walls. The biggest frame was a photo of Steve and Bucky on either side of me, their arms around my shoulders and mine around their waists. I'd adopted them both as the older brothers I'd never had and they'd gladly taken me on as a little sister. "I wish we could do more." I hadn't meant for Steve to hear that, but he had. He gave me a hug.

"We've done enough, kiddo. Bucky will love this. Already it's better than just about every Christmas we had growing up," he commented. "I think we're ready. You did good, kid." He smiled and kissed the top of my head.

The door started to open. Steve and I rushed around either side of the table to stand in front of it.

Bucky stared at us, a cup in each hand.

"Merry Christmas!" Steve and I exclaimed at the same time, grinning widely.

The assassin's mouth gaped open and his pale blue eyes flicked between us. "Th-th-thank you," he stuttered. "I honestly… I didn't expect…" I cut him off by giving him a hug. "I didn't expect a Christmas. I thought you were going to your family's for dinner."

I smirked and took the cups from him, setting them on the table. "I don't have any family anywhere near the vicinity of Brooklyn, you know that," I replied. "I couldn't think of anyone better to spend Christmas Eve with than my brothers." Steve hugged me from one side and Bucky the other, smashing me into a super-soldier-sandwich. It was very warm and very comfortable.

"We couldn't think of anyone better either," Steve commented.

"Shall we eat?" I asked in order to distract myself from the tears of happiness flooding my eyes.

"Yes, let's," Bucky agreed, pulling my chair out for me. I sat and he pushed it in before seating himself with Steve perfectly mirroring his movements.

The three of us told stories of our old Christmases. My favorite of theirs was the Christmas they spent in Europe during the war—they couldn't do anything big, of course, because it was wartime, but the two of them and the other Howling Commandos had sang and danced and apparently Steve ended up tripping over a crate and knocking over several boxes of supplies. Which nearly got them in trouble with Agent Carter. I laughed all the way through the story and nearly cried. Bucky hit his knee with his flesh hand and Steve was clutching at his chest.

I told them the story about the year my cousin almost set the house on fire when he knocked a candle off the table onto a curtain and his mother poured soda on it instead of water. That was the worst disaster. Most other years went relatively smoothly.

After all three of us cleaned up after dinner, we sat on Bucky's sofa—me smooshed between them because I was _obviously_ the smallest—and distributed presents. "I actually did you both something, but I didn't know we were going to do this," he admitted. I rolled my eyes.

"I told you not to get me anything," I reminded him.

"I know. But it's Christmas—and it's the first one in a _long_ time that I've gotten to celebrate with the people I love." He stood up from his seat and retreated into his bedroom for a moment. He came out with hastily-wrapped gifts and passed one to me and the other to Steve. "They're not much, but—" He cut himself off and shook his head. "But I had to get you something."

I put my hand on his knee. "Don't worry about it. You didn't have to get us anything at all!"

"Ladies first," Steve remarked.

I smiled and opened the captain's gift first—it was a T-shirt with _May the Force Be With You_ plastered over the front in the Star Wars font with clashing lightsabers. I laughed and gave Steve a hug. "Thank you!" I squealed.

"I just figured, since you showed us the saga in the first place, I'd get you something to go with your lightsaber," Steve told me. I laughed.

I opened Bucky's next—it was a small box. I pulled the lid off and my jaw dropped. "You call this 'not much'?" I demanded, shocked, turning to stare at him. He shrugged with his normal shoulder and brushed his overlong hair out of his face with his prosthetic hand. There was an amused glint to his eyes and a tiny smirk tugging on the corners of his lips. I threw my arms around his shoulders and just held him for a moment, staring at his gift in my hand.

It was a necklace—a pure silver disk with parallel rivets carved into it. In the center of it was a red star made of little scarlet gems.

Just like his arm.

I kissed his cheek—leaving a red lipstick mark on it, and pulled the necklace out of the box.

He took it from my hands and put it around my neck. "Thank you," I whispered.

Bucky grinned. "You're very welcome, kiddo."

"You next," I told him. The assassin smirked wider and opened Steve's gift first. The captain had gotten Bucky a T-shirt as well, but his was a customized one that said, _My best friend was frozen in a glacier for seventy years and all I got was this lousy shirt_. I cackled as Steve pulled out the _real_ gift he'd gotten for his best friend—a photo album of everything he could find of the two of them from the war era that also included a CD of rare videos. They both leaned past me to hug while I leaned backwards to be out of the way.

Then Bucky opened mine. It was oil to keep his arm from squeaking. It was also a joke. I'd hid my actual present under the sofa while he was out and I bent forward to extract it. It was also a photo album. But unlike Steve's, it had pictures of the three of us from this era and a CD of all the videos I'd taken of our shenanigans—and there were lots of those. Bucky hugged me tightly. "Thank you, kiddo."

"You're welcome."

"Steve's turn!"

The captain opened my gift first—a new pair of aviator sunglasses and a DVD box set of his favorite season of Doctor Who. He laughed and gave me a strong, smothering hug and a kiss on the top of my head.

Then he moved to Bucky's gift—another small box. They were cufflinks in the shape of the Captain America shield. Another hug between the super-soldiers.

It was a very huggy Christmas.

"Thank you, both of you," Bucky said when it was all over and Steve and I were moving to leave. "This was the best Christmas ever."

"It was our privilege," I commented, giving him a side hug as I heaved my backpack on.

He kissed my forehead. "Merry Christmas, kid."

"Merry Christmas, Winter Soldier."

* * *

 **End Note: I couldn't resist this one. Too cute.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	70. The Shadow Asset (P)

**Author's Note: I haven't updated this in a while, so I think I'm going to flood it with one-shots!**

 **70) The Shadow Asset**

* * *

I cast my eyes down to the floor of the Avengers Tower, staring at several sets of feet. I could feel the team's eyes on me. I tucked my arm carefully behind me so no one would see it, holding my duffel bag. "Everybody, this is…" Steve trailed off as he started to introduce me. "What _is_ your name?" I shook my head, long hair hanging limply in front of my face.

"I don't have one. They just called me the Shadow."

"The Shadow?" Steve asked. I nodded. "Okay. This is Shadow, everybody." A chorus of "Hi"s and "Hello"s followed the captain's introduction. "Shadow, this is Tony Stark, Bruce Banner, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Thor, the Vision, Sam, Rhodey, Wanda Maximoff, and her twin brother Pietro Maximoff." He pointed to each person as he said their name. Some of them waved. Others smiled. One or two gave me a slight nod. Each name was instantly grafted to their face in my head. I would never forget a single one.

I hated it.

I reached my good arm around my body and held my bad shoulder, giving the team of superhumans a small bow of my head in greeting.

"Pietro!" Steve said loudly. "Would you please take our guest to her room? _Slowly?"_

The silver-white-haired young man gave the captain a sarcastic salute and stepped over to me. He offered me his arm. "May I?" he inquired politely. I stared at his crooked elbow for several long seconds, trying to remember what to do. I was an _internationally feared assassin_ not some _debutante_ or _princess_. I was so far out of my league I very nearly short-circuited. I wasn't a robot or an android—like the red-faced man over there—but I had my limits.

After staring with my eyebrows scrunched, I took his elbow with my good hand. "You may," I answered. _Wrong. Bad. What are you doing?_ The programming in my head was still telling me off even though I'd been free of HYDRA for more than two years.

Gently Pietro Maximoff led me from the foyer to a stairwell. "Allow me," he remarked, swinging me up into his arms. I held onto him with my good arm and kept my bad one on my duffel bag.

He zipped up the stairs faster than I could process and set me down on floor ninety-six. "Here you are," he commented. "Your room."

"This is a floor," I corrected.

"How silly of me. Your _floor_."

"I don't need a floor. I barely need a room."

"What do you mean?"

"I've never had more than a small room. I will not make use of all the space."

"Oh well. This entire floor has been put together for your use. Whether you use it or not is up to you."

"Thank you," I said politely. I turned to venture deeper onto the floor when his hand shot out and caught my wrist—my "bad" wrist.

I _ripped_ out of his grip.

He stared at the glove on my hand. "Wh-what—" he started. I pulled my long sleeve down farther over the lip of my glove. "What's up with your hand?" Incredulously, he moved to use his speed to pull my glove off—probably. Shockingly, though, I was faster. My bad arm flew out of the way before snapping back and hitting him in the middle of the chest, sending him flying backwards. His electric blue eyes widened in shock and he stared at my left arm. "What happened to you?" he breathed.

I didn't respond immediately. I wasn't used to hiding what was "wrong" with me. It wasn't needed while I was part of HYDRA. I stared at my own hand under its black covering. This young man had given me no reason to trust him. But I didn't like covering up what I was. I was used to my bad arm being exposed.

After a while, I shrugged. _Screw it_ , I thought. With my good arm I pulled the glove off and rolled up my sleeve. "This is what's wrong with me," I informed him.

In a single fluid movement, blue blur trailing behind him, he was on his feet and inches from me, leaned over to look at my hand. He was holding the silver wrist and running his fingers up the plates to my elbow where it disappeared under my sleeve. "How high does it go?" he asked.

I took a step back to give myself room and pulled my shirt off, leaving me in the black tank top and sports bra I wore under it. The prosthetic ended about halfway between my neck and the curve of my shoulder—but there was _tons_ of metal inside my body, anchoring the weight of the arm through my ribcage. "This isn't even the half of it," I muttered sarcastically while Pietro stared with wide eyes and jaw opened with surprise.

At that moment, the elevator opened and some of the team members came out. Sam, Steve, and Tony. All three of them halted when they saw my arm hanging freely at my side.

"Whoa!" Tony exclaimed, rushing forward to look at it. My entire body went rigid. I didn't like being crowded by people. I could be in a very cramped cavity of a space with a rifle and not feel claustrophobic at all. But once it was _people_ in my space I started to get jittery. I was barely keeping myself from throwing Tony across the room as I had already done with Pietro.

"Cap?" Sam asked, looking at Steve. "Is that… like… _his_?"

"The Asset?" I asked. They both jumped and looked at me.

"Yeah. How do you—?"

"Who do you think I was _shadowing_ while I was in HYDRA?" I interrupted. "There is no _extraction_ plan for HYDRA Assets. We get ourselves out or we go down."

" _I'm yelling timbeeeerr!"_ Tony sang. I shot him a glare.

"I followed the Asset. If he failed a mission, I finished it—or him. But I was redundant. He never failed. One second he was there, the next his target was dead," I informed them. At that point Tony was holding my wrist and deltoid, examining the intricacies of my prosthetic.

"How does your body accommodate the weight of the metal?" he asked. "I mean, I know Vibranium is quite light in comparison to most metals, but it's still heavier than skin and bone!"

I glared at the wall between Sam and Steve's heads to keep my irritation in check.

"There are metal anchorings all around my ribcage to distribute the weight," I answered.

"Do you have a sense of touch?"

"There are pressure sensors that transmit to my brain. It's not exactly touch though. No textures are registered. Just that something is touching my arm."

"So if I squeeze…" His grip tightened around my wrist and upper arm.

"I get a signal that something is holding on harder and harder, but I can't… exactly… feel it."

"Wow! That's amazing! Look at how intricate it is! It operates like a normal arm! I mean, maybe not exactly, but for being World War Two-era HYDRA tech, it's pretty ahead of its time. You know what? I'm going to design and make you a whole new one that's even better!" Tony exclaimed. "JARVIS! Do a digital dissect of this thing!"

I shuddered. He'd been too close for too long.

"Tony, hey," Sam started, noticing. "Back up, man. You're making her uncomfortable."

Pietro put his hand on Tony's chest and pushed the older man away. I took a few steps back from all of them. "I'm sorry. I know you're enthusiastic and curious, but I can't be this close to other people without getting stressed. I'm used to being surrounded by enemies. 'Friends' is a distant idea."

"You'll get used to us," Pietro reassured me, giving me a kiss on the temple.

On instinct, I slammed him in the sternum with my prosthetic and threw him back into to Tony, who in turn fell onto Sam, who simply fell over because Steve was standing three feet to the side.

I didn't apologize. I was an assassin. Kissing was _not_ part of my line of work. Unless I was trying to get information and up against some weak-minded man who had a penchant for entering alone but leaving parties with pretty women. Even then, that wasn't my line either. I was a Shadow. I followed the Asset and finished his mission should he fail. It wasn't my business to touch people. To feel skin on mine. To feel lips touching me.

"It'll definitely take time," Sam muttered, rubbing his back where he hit it on the floor.

"She's just here to help us find Bucky—the Winter Soldier," Steve remarked.

"The Asset," I murmured, listening to the mechanical noise of my arm dropping to my side.

"That's right. Once we find him, you're free."

"Captain, I'll never be free."

* * *

 **End Note: I love the idea of the Winter Soldier being shadowed to make sure he got the job done.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	71. Domesticity (P)

**Author's Note: This was a request asking if I'd ever write a "domestic" one-shot with Quicksilver. Which is what I did.**

 **71) Domesticity**

* * *

Your husband has always struggled with the laundry machine. You're not sure why—though you're suspicious that he pretends that he can't so he doesn't have to do it. Whenever he complains, though, you just listen and let him figure it out.

Plus, it's always a show.

You lean against the doorframe to the laundry room in the small home you share with him and sip a hot chocolate idly as snow drifts down outside. He's sorting through the pile of dirty clothes, tangled in some of his active-wear and workout trousers, as well as some of your long-sleeved shirts, occasionally asking you questions. "Does this count as a dark or a medium? Is this tie-dye a white or a color? Should I put the towels in their own batch because I feel like they leave lint everywhere?" So the usual questions go.

"You'd think for an Avenger you'd know color differences," you joke, pushing off from the doorframe and strolling towards the kitchen.

A blue blur passes over your eyes and Pietro stands in front of you. "Please help!" he pleads.

You raise your eyebrows. "But it's _funny_ watching you try to make sense of it!"

Pietro sighs dramatically while you smirk and skirt around him, taking one long last swallow of your hot chocolate. You set your now-empty mug in the sink. "Please?" he asks again. You snicker and turn around, looking right at him.

"You have no patience," you inform him.

"I know!" he exclaims. "And I swear to you, I am trying! But I don't know what I'm doing!"

You laugh and go back to the laundry room. You look through the load he's put in the washing machine, pull out a few that don't belong, and put in several others that did belong but he had in the wrong pile, all the while explaining to him what was wrong. "And since I'm helping you with this, I expect you to help me dust and vacuum," you tease.

"Of course," he replies.

You start the machine and give him a kiss. "You're completely and utterly _impossible_."

"I know," he mutters dejectedly. "I truly am trying. It's not like I'm trying to get out of doing chores. I just do not know how to operate that stupid machine!"

"I love you," you mutter as the machine rumbles next to you.

Pietro gives you a kiss. "I love you too."

You hand him the duster. "Now your turn. And no speed. Last time you used your powers you knocked over three lamps and nearly killed Wanda's cat we were tending." You give him a stern look. He blushes a bright shade of red and sets about dusting. You take your break time to rinse out your mug and set it in the dishwasher. You don't have a lot of furniture that requires dusting, so Pietro is done fairly quickly and starts the vacuum.

He hates that thing more than most cats. The second the thing shudders to life he winces, but goes about cleaning the carpet. You sit on the sofa and watch him fondly. For all his flaws and quirks, he's a great guy and will probably never fail to make you laugh.

When he's done with the vacuum, the laundry finishes. He throws everything into the dryer, and asks you how to turn it on. You tell him, and for once, he does it correctly. He joins you on the sofa and you snuggle against him for quite a long time. There's music playing in the background—though you're not sure where it's coming from. You can't bring yourself to care though, because you don't have many moments like this: just you and Pietro, all alone, completely relaxed. Wanda was tending your two-year-old terror for the day and it felt good to get home fully clean for the first time since… since before your daughter was born.

You stay curled up, deciding that everything else can wait till later, for several hours. You feel rejuvenated, just sitting there, genuinely resting.

As the sun starts to set, there comes a knock on the door. You reluctantly get up and open it to your brunette sister-in-law, who is holding your daughter in the air with her red energy. "Aunt Wanna show me _magic_!" your daughter exclaims excitedly. She drifts through the air at a prompt from Wanda and lands safely in your arms. You hold her close and kiss her forehead.

"Thank you, Wanda," you tell your sister-in-law. "Today was great."

She smiles, almost evilly. "Well, if you want to _night_ to be great, I'm sure this little printessa wouldn't mind having a sleepover with Aunt Wanna and Uncle Vision," she comments, almost suggestively.

"Would _you_ mind, though?" you ask. "This kid's gotta lotta energy."

Pietro takes your daughter into his arms from yours and gives her whiskery kisses all over her face, causing her to squeal and squirm.

Wanda simply smiles. "Ah, but I have _more_ energy," she informs you, hands and eyes shining scarlet. "Honestly, it would not be a problem at all. I love that little bundle and it would be my pleasure to give you two the night off." You sigh with relief and give her a tight hug. She grips you back as hard as she can and pats your back. "You two deserve it, truly."

You turn back to your daughter. "Do you want to have a sleepover with Aunt Wanna?" you ask.

She squeals again. "Yes, yes, yes!" She holds her hands out for her aunt, who takes her away from your husband.

"We'll be back sometime late tomorrow morning. Or afternoon. Or evening," Wanda comments.

When the door closes behind you, Pietro holds you in his arms. "So, what are we going to do tonight?" he asks flirtatiously, kissing the top of your head a couple times as he thinks. You smile and look up at him, resting your chin on his chest.

" _First_ ," you reply. "We're going to fold the clothes and put them away. _Then,_ we can do something more interesting. Like watch a movie that _isn't_ rated PG." Pietro grins mischievously. "But no speed. Last time you used your powers you tore a hole through your favorite jeans, remember?" He blushes again and the two of you go over to the dryer, where the dried clothes have been sitting for several hours. You pull out some bath towels and fold them while he tries a very bad attempt at folding a pair of your sweatpants. You chuckle, take them from him, and do it right. "You are _utterly impossible_."

He kisses you. "You know you love me," he teases.

"Fortunately for you, I do," you retort, kissing him back, deciding the laundry can wait till later.

* * *

 **End Note: This one was fun even if it was also a bit difficult.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	72. Until Next Time (The Boss' Daughter) (P)

**Author's Note: This was another request from a friend on Tumblr asking if I'd write one about pre-Quicksilver Pietro. (The same user who asked for "Pure Silver".)**

 **72) Until Next Time (The Boss's Daughter)**

* * *

You aren't very impressed with Sokovia.

Then again, you only moved here five days ago so maybe your mother's advice of, "Give it time," isn't as far-fetched as it sounded when you'd gotten off the plane. You sigh as you leaf boredly through the ledger in your father's office in the warehouse, wishing your laptop still had some charge. The charging cable was buried under eighteen thousand boxes. Lack of internet—also Tumblr—was irritating you. No emails from friends back home, no contact with the world at large. You don't want to blame your father, particularly, for your situation—but technically it's his fault. He's the manager of some big warehouse on the edge of the city that ships car parts or something. Wealthy business man from America sees a business opportunity in a poorer European country where parts are cheaper to ship? Sign him and his family up.

So here you sit, bored, wondering what to do with your life.

Behind you, floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the warehouse floor. Workers are moving boxes onto trucks and sparks are flying in one corner where someone's welding something. You don't pay the floor or the workers any attention.

Running steps echo up the metal stairs and the door bursts open. "Sir!" a voice exclaims, heavily accented.

"He's not in right now," you remark flatly, not even looking up from the ledger.

"That is… alright. I would… much rather deal with a pretty young lady than an irritable old man."

You snort and glance up—and do a double take.

The guy's probably in his early twenties and without doubt one of the most handsome you've ever seen. He's chiseled and muscular, and could probably lift you up with no effort, but skinny, like he doesn't eat much or his metabolism burns pretty quickly. His eyes are the brightest electric blue you've ever seen. He has a strong jaw with some scruff. And his hair is a slightly-too-long, half-curly, half-wavy dark brown. His wispy bangs are plastered to his sweaty forehead. He's wearing a sports shirt and jeans—both smeared with grease.

"That 'irritable old man' is my father," you comment, lips pressing into a thin line to keep from grinning.

"My apologies," the young man replies. "I did not realize." He leans against the doorframe and folds his arms—as his hand goes under the muscle on his opposite arm, it pushes the muscle out, making him look even more muscular.

It's almost all you can do to keep yourself from licking your lips as you shamelessly admire him.

But he's giving you almost the same ravenous, devouring look you're giving him.

The two of you stare at each other in tense, almost awkward silence for a few moments before you remember he'd come in here for a reason. You blink to break the staring contest and raise your eyebrows. "Do you want me to call him in? Whatever brought you up here must be important," you suggest. He continues staring—this time with a hint of confusion—until he shakes his head to clear it, sending his dark hair flopping around his head and unsticking his bangs from his sweaty forehead.

"Yes. If you would not mind. One of the men has pulled his shoulder. I am the fastest so they sent me to ask the manager if it would be alright for him to leave early," the young man explained.

You send a quick text to your father. He's never more than two feet away from his phone at any given time. _Worker here. Has emergency. Come to office._

 _Which worker?_

 _Brown hair. Tall. Handsome. Like… superhero handsome._

 _… OK? Name?_

"What's your name?" you ask curiously.

"Maximoff. Pietro Maximoff."

You smile and give him your name in return.

 _Pieaytro Maximov,_ you send your father.

 _Pietro Maximoff?_

 _Sure. Whatever. Just come to the office. It's an actual emergency!_

Pietro is watching you from the doorway, arms still folded and eyes glimmering with mischief and mirth. "Has anyone ever told you that you are exquisite?" he asks. Your mouth drops open in pleasant surprise and a blush heats up your cheeks. You open and close your lips for a moment—not unlike a fish—as you think of something to say.

"Er… well… um… no. No one has ever told me that," you tell him.

He grins with the right half of his mouth. "Then allow me to be the first," he remarks. He steps into the room and offers you his hand. You bite your lower lip, take it, and let him lead you around the desk so you're standing opposite him with no barrier. He bends and kisses your knuckles. "You are an _exquisite_ creature, love." You are shamelessly blushing the color of a flattered ripe tomato and he brings your hand up to his lips to kiss again—you're quick to notice that despite the prickly scruff against your skin, his lips are quite soft.

"Thank… thank you," you reply.

Your father comes in at that moment. "Maximoff. I'll talk with you alone," he remarks. You take that as your cue to leave. You exit the office and stand on the metal balcony that overlooks the warehouse floor.

After maybe a minute and a half Pietro leaves your father's office and goes back to the floor. Your father joins you on the balcony.

"I don't want you to be too interested in him," he tells you.

"Huh?" you inquire—eloquently.

"Maximoff. He's got a bad past and a rough history. Not to mention he's a notorious flirt."

You smirk as you watch Pietro go over to a man on the floor sitting on a crate, holding his shoulder. The brunet tells him something and he gets up and leaves. Pietro goes back to moving boxes onto shipping trucks and stacking crates. As your father turns his back to leave, Pietro looks up and gives you a wink you can see from across the huge space. Another blush hints your cheeks. You quickly retreat back to the office and sit with your back to the windows.

After a few hours of trying to entertain yourself, you leave the warehouse, texting your father to let him know. He gives the OK and you slide out a side door.

You're only three blocks away when a shadow swoops out of nowhere and a hand takes yours.

"There are two men behind us that have been following you since you left the warehouse," a familiar voice with an absolutely _delicious_ accent hisses. You look up to see dark brown bangs swinging back and forth with the sway of Pietro's gait. Your mouth drops open in surprise. You hadn't even noticed! "Please, allow me to walk you back to your home."

"Yes, please!" you say. He smirks mischievously and loops your arm through his.

"You know, princessa," he starts after you two have been walking for a block or two. "For being a foreigner, I like you."

"I will take that as a compliment, Mr. Maximoff."

"No! Please! Call me Pietro. We are friends, are we not?"

You smile. "Yes. I suppose we are," you concede.

He escorts you through the worn and weary streets that make up the city, taking subtle cues from you as to where to go. Every so often he looks over your shoulders—even though apparently the men who had been following you had bailed the moment Pietro saved you.

When you reach your apartment building, you pull him to a stop. "Here we are," you comment.

"Already? How unfortunate. I was enjoying this," he replies.

"So was I."

Hastily, Pietro casts glances over either shoulder. Making a very impulsive decision, he bends down and kisses you on each cheek. "Perhaps we can continue this very nice friendship some other time," he suggests, tugging nervously on his dark hair and twisting a chunk of it around his fingers. You grin and nod enthusiastically.

"I'd like that!" you tell him.

He takes your hand again, gives it one last kiss, and smiles. "Until next time, then, princessa." With a wink of those electric blue eyes, he turns on his heel and jogs off into the dusk, dark hair bouncing around his head.

You smile, eyes lingering on him for a long moment before you let yourself inside.

"Until next time, Pietro," you murmur.

* * *

 **End Note: I loved this one. It was so much fun. Hope you enjoyed!**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	73. Spitfire (S)

**Author's Note: In particular this one is** ** _good_** **. I love it so much. Based of a Tumblr blog (SHIELD Recruit Survival Tips)'s post about Steve Rogers and his shirt... You'll see. ;-)**

 **73) Spitfire**

* * *

I smirked to myself, nudging Natasha with my elbow as we sat on the sofa, watching Steve, Sam, and Clint play Mario Kart on the floor in front of us. Steve was winning and it was driving the other two crazy because, "Rogers! You were frozen when video games were made!"—as Clint kept shouting at the top of his lungs, accompanied by Sam also shouting, "Stop saying you're on my left! I can see you passing me!"

" _You know if you tell Steve he's got a great backside he'll turn the color of your hair_ ," I whispered to Natasha, carefully selecting Russian out of the plethora of languages we both knew. I put a cookie in my mouth as she snickered.

 _"You know, you setting his shirt on fire just to see him take it off sounds like a great idea,"_ she whispered back—also in her native language. _"He doesn't even like that shirt."_

It wasn't often that she and I were shallow and/or objectifying like that. We didn't like it when men catcalled us—Natasha just did something about it (IE kidney punch) while I lit my hair on fire to get a reaction—so we didn't like to act in similar ways to our (quite frankly) very attractive teammates. _But_ seeing Steve blush was one of the funnier things to do when we were bored on a rainy Saturday afternoon. He wasn't exactly innocent—he _was_ a soldier after all—but he was from nicer times when men were gentlemen and women were ladies.

" _Should I actually do it?"_

" _Why not? It's not like you've ever done it before—if you say it was an accident he'll totally believe you."_

I snorted.

"You two do realize I speak Russian, right?" Clint called over his shoulder.

"Yeah, but do you have any idea what we just said?" Natasha retorted.

"No, I wasn't listening," Clint admitted. Natasha and I chuckled. "Something about an accident."

"Stubbed my toe this morning on my stupid chair," I supplied. "I… _accidentally_ threw it at a wall and broke it." It was totally fake but I was so bizarre in the archer's eyes that nothing I did surprised him anymore and he'd swallow whatever I said.

I spent a few minutes munching on a cookie while the boys finished their race. When Steve won, Natasha and I clapped.

A spark flew from my fingertips and landed on the back of Steve's shirt. Just a tiny prompt from me and it became a small little flame. I gave Natasha a quick wink as the super soldier realized his shirt was on fire. He swore loudly, dropped the controller he was holding, jumped to his feet, and ripped the fabric off like it was tissue paper. It tore away from his body with a classic ripping noise and landed on the floor. He stomped it out, muscles in his upper back rippling.

Natasha winked at me—she knew I had a small crush on Steve.

When he noticed us staring, he blushed from the waistline of his old-man trousers to the roots of his blond hair. The fact that he was a full-body blusher made me giggle—which only made him blush deeper because he probably thought I was giggling at his body. Which I wasn't. I was admiring it, but I wouldn't _dream_ of laughing at it.

I'd seen him rip apart a log with his bare hands. He could probably do the same thing to me.

So I didn't laugh.

But I did drink in the sight of his muscles.

Even though I'm female and could never _hope_ to be in the same physical category as him, that didn't mean I wasn't jealous. He was almost as bulky as Thor. It was _impressive._

When I didn't look away the shade of red that covered his entire upper body got darker.

"Did you set my shirt on fire on purpose?" he asked curiously.

I shook my head. "No," I replied, making sure I didn't sound _too_ innocent or respond _too_ quickly. I wrung my hands together. "I just… fire powers… friction from clapping… hard to control… even harder with adrenaline… sparks form randomly… not easy to stop…" I kept going vaguely, fingertips igniting like candles before I clenched them out.

Steve watched me warily.

"It was an accident, I promise," I said seriously. Natasha's lips were pressed together and she was trying very hard not to laugh. "Though I must say I'm not complaining. I quite appreciate the view."

Sam and Clint both snorted loudly before cackling and guffawing and Steve blushed again.

Natasha chuckled. "Yeah, why wouldn't she be appreciating the view?" she asked, nudging me in the arm with her elbow. I laughed. Steve looked so embarrassed—it was kind of adorable. "Stop looking so self-conscious, Steve! Out of all of us you should be the _most_ confident about your body!"

"Wasn't always like this," Steve muttered, mostly under his breath to himself with his head lowered, but I heard him.

I grabbed the folded blanket from the back of the sofa and threw it at him—it whacked him square in the face before he caught it. "Well, if you're going to be so embarrassed about it, here," I remarked.

"Thanks." He wrapped up in it, still red in the face.

I hauled myself to my feet, grabbed another cookie from the plate on the coffee table, and offered my hand to him. He stared at it, wondering what I was getting at. "C'mon. To say sorry we'll go get you a different shirt at your floor and then I'll take you out and treat you to lunch," I said, giving him a nonthreatening smile.

 _"Smooth,"_ Natasha remarked in Farsi—one I knew and Clint didn't. I smirked for a moment.

Steve took my hand and let me lead him towards the corridor. "Okay. But you're doing it wrong."

"Pardon?" I asked, almost offended.

He moved so that the hand holding mine was bent at the elbow and moved my hand to the crook. " _This_ is how a gentleman escorts a lady somewhere," he amended.

Clint and Natasha—in harmony—catcall-whistled as we left. Steve gave Clint a glare and I gave Natasha an excited wink. _You go, girl!_ Black Widow mouthed to me. I smirked at her before turning back to the super soldier.

"Where would you like to go for lunch?" I inquired brightly.

"Let's worry about that after I get a shirt on," Steve replied, grinning.

I sarcastically laid my cheek against his arm—which was about the same size as my head. "But you're _warm_ with _out_ one on!" I protested jokingly. He blushed again but smiled. "Ooh! Now you're even warmer!"

"You know all about warmth, don't you, Spitfire?" he retorted teasingly.

"Absolutely. And Cap, warm doesn't even cover you. _Hot_ would be a better term."

"In which sense of the word?"

"Both." I gave him a sarcastic wink.

"Well, then, so are you." He bit his lower lip and smirked at me.

"When did you learn to flirt?" I asked.

"From you—I could only learn from the best."

I chuckled as we reached his room. He picked a simple pale blue shirt and yanked it over his head. For a moment he combed his fingers through his hair to somewhat restyle it.

"Alright, captain, let's blow this Popsicle stand."

He offered me his arm. "May I escort you to lunch, miss?"

"I'd be delighted, captain."

* * *

 **End Note: Teehee!**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	74. A Moment (S)

**Author's Note: This one is really short to the point where I don't have the guts to call it a one-shot. I'd go more for "drabble". On that note, who's ready for a quick moment of** ** _passion?_** **(Ooooooh!)**

 **74) A Moment**

* * *

Awkward. Steve was wearing only a tight-fitting blue-gray hoodie zipped down to the center of his chest—without even a shirt under it—and a pair of jeans. He was looking down at me, eyes filled with tension and drooped to look down at me. Crap. What did I do? Why was he glaring down at me _literally five inches from me?_ I could _feel_ his furnace-like heat radiating around me.

"You're _killing_ me," he finally whispered. "I've never _felt_ like this for another woman—not even Peggy."

"What?" I asked, completely confused.

He grabbed the loose fabric on the front of my jacket and pulled me close, smashing his lips against mine. I felt really shocked and confused for several moments before my fingers rested on his abs and slipped up to his zipper. After fumbling with it for a second my fingers grasped it and yanked it down.

 _Zzzt!_ The fabric hung loosely over his otherwise-bare body, hanging from his shoulders. My hands slid over his rock-hard abs, around his obliques, and held onto his powerful back.

After a moment, he ripped the hoodie off and threw it to the ground. His fingers found the zipper of my oversized jacket and he pulled it down, revealing the black tank top I wore under it. I slid the sleeves off my arms and let it fall to the floor. It tangled around my ankles as I leaned into him.

He smelled good. It was weird that I was paying attention to that, but he did. Like musk and the pumpkin spice candle that burned in his bedroom after he had a nightmare. His hands were wrapped around my back. I could feel his warm palms against my shoulder blades. After a moment they slid down to my thighs and picked me up. I wrapped my ankles around his waist and locked them in place, my own grip going around his shoulders and gripping his deltoids to keep me upright.

When Steve pulled his mouth away and leaned his forehead against mine, we were both breathing heavily. His eyes were closed but I was staring at him.

"What… was this all about, again?" I asked.

"I'm in love with you. And I've never felt this way before and it terrifies me," he whispered, leaning down and resting his head on my shoulder.

I rested my chin on the back of his neck. "That's okay. I'm scared too. We can be scared together." I climbed off his hips—slightly reluctantly—and held him in my arms. I'm considerably shorter than him so he looked a bit like a forlorn giraffe wrapped around a baby zebra but he held me in his powerful arms. He was shaking, kissing my shoulder over and over again.

"I love you," he breathed.

I ran my fingers through his hair. "I love you too."

* * *

 **End Note: How's that huh? (Maybe don't answer that...)**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	75. Prisoner of War (S)

**Author's Note: Last one for today, I promise. I. Am. So. Dang. Proud. Of. This. One.**

 **75) Prisoner of War**

* * *

"Excuse me!" a small voice behind Steve asked timidly. He turned and looked down to see a girl not much taller than five-feet looking up at him through thick black eyelashes. "I know you must get this all the time, but are you Steve Rogers?"

 _Here we go_ , he thought. "Yes I am," he answered.

Her mouth dropped open. "Oh thank heavens," she whispered. "I'm sorry, but do you have a moment for me to tell you a story?"

Steve glanced at his watch. He had to be somewhere soon but the look in her eyes—the hope—made him decide he could be late. "Of course."

"Thank you! My great-grandfather served in World War Two in Europe. He was a prisoner of war in a HYDRA camp. You and the Howling Commandos saved his life in late nineteen-forty-four. He, uh, never got the chance to thank you properly. I've kept this with me since he died, hoping one day I'd meet you and I could give it to you as he always meant to. He was a journalist before the war but he wrote poetry while he was overseas and would send it to my great-grandmother—his wife. But he never sent this one." She pulled a sealed plastic bag out of her purse. Folded neatly inside was a yellowed, extremely old piece of paper. "He always hoped he could give it to you. When he died he left it to me because he never believed you were dead. 'Grand-baby,' he'd tell me, 'That Captain America may not be immortal, but he's alive out there somewhere. And when you find him one day, I want you to give my poem to him.' I've been hoping for years that I'd be able to." She passed him the plastic bag. Steve stared at it, in shock.

"No. It's your memento of your grandfather," Steve tried to protest.

"It was never mine to keep," the girl retorted. "But I've read it so many times I memorized it. I have several written copies." She paused. "Besides, I have these." She pulled a pair of World War II era dog tags out of the collar of her shirt. "If you don't want to take it out of the bag, I could read it to you." A blush crept up her cheeks.

Steve smiled. "I'd love that."

She cleared her throat and spoke clearly and distinctly. "It's called _Prisoner of War_."

" _Day by day, the cold walls encroach.  
_ _And day by day, I feel Death approach._

 _I do not expect to live.  
_ _I have given, all I have, to give._

 _I accept whatever happens—come what may.  
_ _It's been so long since I saw the light of day._

 _Held captive by men just following orders,  
_ _We took the risk—now our lives cut shorter_

 _Starved, frozen, weary, lost,  
_ _We served our country, at great cost._

 _Suddenly, hope, light, heat, salvation.  
_ _Saved by the hero of the nation._

 _Thank you, sir, from my deepest soul,  
_ _For saving me from that dreadful hole._

 _Now I may go home to my heart.  
_ _Now my love and I will never part."_

She stopped speaking. Her eyes had drifted down to ground between their feet. Steve stared at her, eyes wide and lips parted. "Wow," was all he managed to say. He was in complete awe. The power of those words astounded him.

"I wouldn't have been born had you not saved his life. I owe my existence to your courage and your actions," she murmured quietly, finally turning her eyes back up to him.

Before she could say anything else, Steve crushed her into a big bear hug. Her own arms held him as tightly as she could. He rested his chin on the top of her head and closed his eyes. "Thank you," he said quietly. "You have no idea how much I needed to hear that today." Things hadn't been going too well for him lately—his fruitless search for Bucky was grinding to a painful halt because there were no leads, and tension between him and Tony was escalating—but every word she spoke of that old poem made him remember a time when he felt like a true hero. Not a poster boy for patriotism.

"Thank you for listening," she replied. "I've been hoping to find you for years."

"I'm glad you did."

"I'm glad I did too." Her respect for him as a person, and the lack of fangirliness she'd displayed, made him all the more moved. She wasn't one of those girls who chased him asking for autographs. She was a girl who'd gone through her life but still kept up the hope that she'd meet him and pass on her great-grandfather's poem one day.

When Steve finally pulled away from the hug, she stuck out her hand.

"It was nice to finally meet you," she offered.

"It was wonderful to meet you, as well." He shook her hand.

She gave him a smile and a grin and turned to leave.

"Wait! Hang on!" Steve called. He dug his phone out of his pocket as she turned with raised eyebrows. "Take a picture with me, please? So I can remember this?" She grinned and complied. "And… can I give you my email so you can write that story down and send it to me?"

"Of course."

He pulled his little notebook out of his pocket, scribbled his email address down, tore out the page, and handed it to her. She put it in her purse and moved to leave again. "Thank you again."

"You're very welcome. And thank _you_ ," she replied with a grin before finally leaving.

Steve stared after her for a few moments, then looked down to the plastic bag in his hand that contained the poem. A sad sort of grin lifted one corner of his mouth. He glanced at his watch, saw he was almost late, and started to walk away.

The girl had no idea how much he'd needed to hear what she'd said.

And he didn't even know her name.

* * *

 **End Note: I don't write poetry very well, so there's a reason this one means so much to me.**

 **Thank you for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	76. Collapsing, Falling (S)

**Author's Note: This has been a while coming. Sorry I took forever, but there's a reason I don't promise an update schedule so... LOL.**

 **76) Collapsing, Falling**

* * *

 _BANG!_

The shot rang through the air. It didn't echo—as gunshots didn't. My eyes widened and I whirled around just in time to see Steve collapsing, falling onto his shield. "No!" The horrible shriek ripped from my throat before I could even process what was happening. I ran over to Steve as fast as I could and slid on my knees the last few inches. I pulled him up onto my lap. "No! No, no, no, no, no! Steve! Steve, stay with me! Steve!" I pleaded, holding onto his uniform as tightly as I could. My free hand put pressure on the blooming rosette of blood on his abdomen. I wasn't sure _why_ stomach wounds were dangerous (something about stomach acid getting in the bloodstream?) but I knew they were.

 _"What's wrong?"_ Sam's voice asked over the earpiece.

"'M _fiiiiine_ ," the captain slurred.

"Steve's hit!" I cried as tears started to well up in my eyes. "He got shot! He's fading fast."

" _What?!"_ Bucky shouted, making feedback screech in my ear. " _Kid, keep him steady. I'll be right there."_

"That's not going to be easy! We're still taking fire!" I exclaimed, grabbing Steve's shield off his arm and propping it up on my back in the direction the shot that hurt Steve came from. A couple bullets exploded the asphalt around us. For a moment I was way confused. They had one relatively big target to hit and they weren't hitting me.

 _"I know, kid! I'm taking care of it!"_ Bucky snapped. That explained the randomness of the bullet sprays if he was taking shooters out. I bent double over Steve so I was hidden completely behind the shield and practically laid on his wound.

"Stay with me, Steve. Stay with me," I begged. His blue eyes were watching me carefully, eyelids fluttering. "You can't die on me! I didn't give you permission!"

"'Oo I 'ave 'o ask fo' p'mission t' die?" he mumbled, voice slurring worse as his consciousness faded.

" _Yes_ ," I snapped forcefully. The weakest of grins played on the edges of his face.

"Funny," he muttered.

"Just stay awake. If you fall asleep you may never wake up again. And I don't know what that would do to me," I told him.

"Mmm," was the only response I got.

" _Steve!_ Don't even think about falling asleep!" A tear leaked out of my face and landed on his jaw. "You can't die now! You just got Bucky and his memories back! You can't leave him now! You can't leave _me_ now! I care too much about you and I don't want you to die!" My fingers fisted in the front of his uniform were turning white at the knuckles.

Speaking of Bucky, he landed on his own knees on the other side of Steve from me, looking panicked. He looked up at me with wide pale blue eyes. "I'll get him to cover—to the jet. You stay right here and I'll come back for you, okay?" he ordered me.

I nodded and curled tighter behind the shield as the Winter Soldier hauled the captain into his arms and sprinted off. Had the man not had a metal arm I would have been surprised that he could carry all of Steve's 220-240 pounds. Technically the threat around me was pretty much gone thanks to Bucky, but I stayed as hidden as I could in the open ground where Steve was shot. One of my hands was covered in the captain's blood and the other was just hanging onto the shield as hard as I'd clung to his uniform. I was weeping, praying that Steve would be okay. I'd never established if I was in love with him or not, but he and I were very close and I wasn't sure what I would do if he died. Probably drag his patriotic butt back to life so I could kill him myself for being such a reckless idiot and getting himself shot.

I didn't have to wait for long for Bucky to come back and get me. About five minutes of shaking from terror and shock, he melted out of the shadow and scooped me up. I was so small that I could fit in one arm. He held me tightly to his chest while I clutched Steve's shield. "Hey, doll, listen to me, Steve's gonna be okay. Bruce is taking care of him and Dr. Cho is on her way to the Tower. We've just gotta get you two outta here."

"Why me? I'm fine."

"No you're not. You're traumatized, as well as bleeding."

 _Bleeding?_ I thought, mind barely cooperating. I looked down to see blood soaking my left side. "What in the world?" I wondered aloud.

"My guess is you were grazed when you ran to help Steve," Bucky remarked.

"But I didn't feel anything!" I protested. "That's gotta be Steve's blood."

"I'm sure you felt something. You just didn't think about it because you were too focused on Steve. Be mindful of your attachments when you live this life. Any of us can be ripped away from you at any moment." He ducked behind a pillar as a spray of bullets rang through the air. "I'm not telling you to not have friends. I'm warning you to be careful which friends you pick."

I kind of tuned him out. It wasn't that I didn't appreciate that he was trying to help me, it was that he was helping me in the wrong way. I knew my line of work. I knew how dangerous it was.

But that didn't mean I couldn't make friends with those around me.

Bucky darted out into the open and let off a single shot from his handgun. An assailant crumpled like a stack of pancakes. Bucky rushed forward and made his way to the jet. He carried me in and closed the door to the cargo bay.

Bruce was there and Steve was half-conscious on the gurney. I was set down in the seat next to Steve while Bucky told Bruce I was bleeding, slipped out the door again, and vanished.

I told Bruce to keep worrying about Steve. I was fine.

I took the super soldier's hand in both of mine, leaving his own blood from my palm smeared all over his. His fingers curled weakly around mine while another set of tears fell from my eyes. I was sore from fighting but my supposedly bleeding side still wasn't hurting. I rested my forehead against his knuckles and kept praying that he'd be alright.

"Hey," his voice mumbled, lower than usual. I looked up. "I'm gonna be fine. I've had worse." The fact that he wasn't slurring was either really good (he was getting better) or really bad (he was in a lot of pain and trying to talk normal to keep me from crying). I wasn't sure if I wanted to know which.

"But—"

"It takes more th'n one shot to the tummy to kill Capt'n 'Merica," he interrupted. The slur was more comforting than maybe it should have, but it let me know that he was in pain.

As it was, it took everything I had to not make eighteen "'Murica!" jokes while he would just lie there at my mercy.

"Well, thankfully, you are going to be okay. Sergeant Barnes got you here just in time," Bruce said.

Relief flooded through me. I stood up and kissed Steve's forehead.

" _Hel_ lo, darlin'!" he slurred. "What're you doin' later?"

"He's got enough pain meds in his system to knock out an elephant," Bruce informed me.

"I've got no plans tomorrow night," I told Steve.

He almost drunkenly smiled at me. "Dinner?"

"Maybe. If you get better."

"I'll make sure to be better, then," he muttered.

Bruce nodded. _Keep him talking,_ he mouthed at me.

So I did. We made plans for a whole elaborate date that involved me teaching him how to dance and him showing me around New York while we both wore very nice outfits. He was half-grinning and his eyelids were fluttering. He sounded like a teenager that had just gotten their wisdom teeth out. I was smiling like mad, being very tempted to film him. But since Tony would somehow use whatever footage I got as blackmail on _both of us_ , I elected to keep my camera firmly in my duffel bag.

By the time the team got back and the jet took off, Steve was healing. His intense regeneration capabilities courtesy of the serum were in high gear, working overtime. And he was starting to get some color back to his skin.

Bucky, meanwhile, was seething in his corner seat. After Sam told me to get some rest and promised he'd watch out for Steve, I went over to the Winter Soldier. "Somethin' wrong?"

"My whole life I just wanted to protect him from bullies. Then the war started and I wanted to keep him out of that. I went to war myself because I wanted to be everything _he_ wanted to be because he couldn't. Then the SSR turned him into a fighting machine—my harmless, gentle, but fiery friend. And he was beyond my help. Now he's lying on a gurney with a stomach wound and there's nothing I can do. And I know it's not, but it feels like it's my fault. Like I didn't protect him well enough," he told me, so quiet no one else in the cramped cargo hold could hear us. I gave him a hug. He patted my back. "Get some rest, kid. We'll be in the air for a while."

So I laid across two seats, curled up on my side, and after a few moments of watching Steve's groggy, bruised face, dropped off to sleep.

* * *

 **End Note: :-) I literally can't think of anything to say. (Except, Kelsoc, did you mean this whole collection or _Prisoner of War_ in particular?)**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	77. Play With Magic (L)

**Author's Note: I... I couldn't help myself. Sorry not sorry.**

 **77) Play With Magic**

* * *

Loki gulped. _This is not a good idea,_ he thought. _I am going to kill Thor later for suggesting this—this isn't even one of the Nine Realms!_ He stood just outside the throne room of the queen. The matriarchy of the planet set it apart from the others around it—and thus drew a lot of attention from surrounding systems.

Venecia was the source of magic for the entire universe. It was stronger here than anywhere else—even Asgard.

Which was one reason why Loki was nervous—and, if he was honest with himself, scared.

The queen was someone to fear.

For thousands of years, queens on Venecia weren't chosen by birth. They were chosen by strength. The girl with the strongest magical ability at the previous queen's death would be the new ruler—of the entire planet.

A girl in a guard's uniform exited the throne room. "Her Majesty will see you now," she remarked. She looked fiercer than half of Asgard's security and she was probably half their size.

"Thank you," he told her. She nodded briskly and threw the heavy door open.

"Queen Angelia, may I present, Prince Loki, of Asgard!" the guard announced.

The queen was sitting diagonally on her throne so she wasn't facing him directly. Long, thick waves of chocolaty hair tumbled down her back, covering the fact that her regal blue dress didn't have material covering her back. Her head was tilted backwards until Loki entered the room. Then, slowly, almost sensually, she looked down at him. A slow smirk spread up her regal features. She looked like she was around twenty Midgardian years—by all means the youngest queen of Venecia he had ever seen. Her eyes were bottomless black, but they shimmered with green—magic. They were ringed by black lashes. Her skin was smooth, flawless, and almost silver. "I knew you were going to come to me one day, Loki," she commented seductively.

Loki licked his lips, realizing they were dry. Hating his brother for this ludicrous idea, he knelt. "Your Majesty," he greeted respectfully. "I have come—"

"To ask for the hand in marriage of me or one of my powerful sisters," the queen finished. "Asgard has long sent prominent members of their society here as suitors for our noblewomen. It keeps the magic on Asgard strong. But if they're sending their prince—the one with magic so powerful it's second only to his mother and third to my own—then he can only be here asking for the hand of one of us. And that would be me. Am I correct?" She stood from her throne. Her dress swirled around her legs.

"Yes, Your Majesty. You are correct," he answered.

She took measured, slow steps down the stairs until she was on the step just above the floor, bringing her to his height. There was a mischievous smirk that Loki appreciated on her face. "Are you going to play with magic, little Asgardian?" she taunted. "Boys who play with magic get hurt. Choose carefully who you think you're here for. _I_ am capable of anything and everything beyond even _your_ wildest dreams, God of Mischief." She traced her soft fingers under his chin, still grinning wickedly at him through her black lashes.

Loki had a brief flash of memory to the moment his mother told him she was going to teach him her magic. _"You're not big and burly like Thor, my son. You won't survive his fights without my magic."_

 _"But isn't magic cheating, mother?"_

 _"Yes it is. But, little Loki, in war—the cheaters win."_

Something about Queen Angelia reminded him of that moment. Maybe it was slow, deliberate speech pattern—the one that commanded attention, respect, and aroused fear deep in the soul. She was smaller than Frigga but several inches, but she had the same queenly command to her being.

Loki suddenly felt very self-conscious under the blistering black gaze of the queen. But he knew he had to go through with this. "I understand, Your Majesty."

"I've had many suitors in my years on that throne. All of them have been sent back to their home planets as plants. What makes you different?" she murmured, face inches from his. He honestly couldn't tell if she was trying to scare him or flirt with him.

It was hard to know the difference with Venecian women.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I don't know what those suitors did to wrong you."

"They played with magic and got their fingers burnt."

It was Loki's turn to smirk. "I know dangerous magic when I see it. I know magic better than almost anyone not from this planet. Don't underestimate me, Your Highness. I _am_ the God of Mischief." He gently but firmly took her hand in his and kissed her knuckles. With her free hand she pulled his dagger out from its hidden spot on his belt. She pulled away from him and examined the weapon, still smiling.

"Fit choice for a magician," she commented. "Swords. Shields. Clunky tools of warriors. They have no place in the subtle, precise art that is magic." She flipped the knife expertly over her fingers and held it by the blade, offering him the hilt. "You have my respect. Fighting with a short blade can be dangerous. It requires you to get in closer with your enemy." Loki took the hilt and put it back in his belt. "Most suitors have come to me unarmed or with a long silver sword. You did not. I will listen to your proposal, and because you have my respect, if you displease me I will still allow you to return to Asgard in your present form."

"So you're not going to turn me into a plant?" he asked jokingly.

There was that slow, sensual smile. She traced her thumb over his lower lip. She was testing him—his lust and his temper. Seeing how much control he had. He held rigidly still until she pulled away. "No. I don't think so. There's something about you, Prince Loki. You're not like the other Asgardians I've met. Almost… colder. But at the same time warmer. I can't quite put my finger on it. You intrigue me, little prince. I will hear you." She walked back up to her throne and sat down, back ramrod straight.

Loki knelt at the base of the stairs. "Queen Angelia, of Venecia, I would like to make you an offer of marriage. I promise not to _play_ with magic and strive to always please you. Our marriage would be mutually beneficial to both of our realms—a permanent alliance." He kept his head bowed, black hair hanging on either side of his narrow, knife-like face.

"Do bear in mind, though, that even though Asgard is ruled by a patriarchy, Venecia is not. So let me make one thing clear: I will not be _yours_. You will be _mine_ ," she told him.

Loki smiled mischievously, eyes turning up to her. "I expected nothing less." His magic glimmered green across his icy blue eyes, making his smirk even more impish. His appearance seemed to amuse her because she smiled—it was the most genuine he'd seen on her, but it was still full of the ethereal, seductive beauty. Green shimmered over her pale silvery skin and gathered in her black eyes. She looked pleased.

"I accept, Prince Loki, of Asgard," she told him.

Relief spread through Loki. He was honestly astounded that he'd done it. He could practically hear Thor's laughter in his mind. _Well done, brother. You've successfully landed the most powerful woman in the universe,_ the big oaf would have said. Loki smiled at the queen.

 _Yes I did_.

* * *

 **End Note: *grins impishly* I will admit I was listening to Katy Perry when I wrote this. For like an hour... :-D XD**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	78. Time and Time Again (SB)

**Author's Note: This was something of a request, but kinda not. It's a Time-Travel AU that's supposed to take place sometime during or after Civil War.**

 **78) Time and Time Again**

* * *

"Are you saying this thing can travel through time?" Steve demanded, looking at the metal box in the abandoned HYDRA base in Sokovia.

Wanda shrugged. "That was its original purpose. I do not know if it ever actually achieved that aim, but that was its intention," she remarked. Steve stared at the machine for several moment. This could be it. The key to stopping everything before it started. The box in front of him could save… everyone.

He took a step forward.

"Steve, no," Wanda warned. "It was never tested! It could kill you!"

"But it could also save everything!" Steve murmured quietly. Ignoring the younger twin's protests, he opened the box and clambered in. It was a bit cramped for his bulky frame, but he didn't care.

He flicked the knobs until he reached the desired date. January 4, 1945.

A day before Bucky fell off the train.

Steve hit the green button and the small box started to shake violently. He could hear Wanda calling out to him, sounding scared. But he continued to ignore her. This was something he was willing to risk if it mean restoring peace.

And saving Bucky from HYDRA.

After what felt like three days—but really wasn't and Steve knew it—the shaking stopped. The captain opened the small door and unfolded himself out of the tiny cavity.

The first thing he saw was snow.

The second thing he saw was a soldiers' camp nearby.

The third was the moon brightly shining from the black sky.

Adjusting his shield on his back, he dodged behind some trees, not wanting to be seen. He peered between the leaves and raised his eyebrows. _Oh wow,_ he thought, impressed and pleasantly surprised. _I actually did it._ The camp a few yards away wasn't populated with just any small unit of soldiers with no backup anywhere nearby.

It was the Howling Commandos' camp.

Steve smirked to himself. He hadn't seen those faces with his own eyes in years. Seventy to be precise, but he spent most of those in the ice. It felt like he'd only left them four, maybe five years ago. There was Monty, Dum-Dum, Jim, Gabe—

And Bucky—who was sitting next to Steve's younger self.

Steve froze, entire body going rigid. Bucky…

The brunet had laugh lines around his eyes. He was _smiling_ —heck, he was _laughing_. Steve's heartstrings tugged painfully. It had felt like so long since he'd heard his best friend's laugh. It reminded him of… well. The forties.

He snapped back behind the tree as the younger version of himself turned to look around.

"Alright, guys. Go to sleep. I've got first watch," younger Steve told the Commandos.

"I can take first," Bucky put in. "You took first last night."

From behind the tree, only listening now, Steve smiled. He remembered when Bucky would do that.

"It's fine. Kinda wanna be awake with just my thoughts for a while," the younger Steve commented. Older Steve could practically see Bucky's shrug, imagined the brunet holding his belt buckle with both hands the way he always had when he was wearing his uniform. Steve smiled and snuck a peek around the tree trunk. Bucky had walked off and was settling down on his bedroll.

About an hour into his watch, the young Steve got up from the tree stump he'd been sitting on and started to walk.

Towards where Steve was hiding.

A few choice words ran through Steve's head. _Maybe I could explain it to him…_ he thought. _But a little farther away from the camp so no one will hear_. He edged around the tree until younger Steve had passed and then carefully matched his movements from two paces behind, including where his boots fell so that there would only be one set of footprints and the sound of only one man walking. He knew how good his senses were.

He followed his younger self for several yards, wondering where he was going. Both had their shields on their arms after forties-Steve had taken his off of his back and twenty-first-century Steve had copied him.

Young Steve whirled around, moving to whack Older Steve with his shield—which Steve blocked with his shield. A loud _CLANG!_ reverberated through the trees "Put that thing down you're going to hurt yourself," he snapped irritably. Young Steve recovered from the confusion of seeing _himself_ —just an older, wearier version—pretty quickly and he obviously didn't like being ordered around like that. He grabbed Steve's shield, twisted it and slammed Steve in the gut with the rim of his shield. Older Steve stumbled backwards before collapsing into the snow.

"Why are you following me? What kind of imposter are you?" the younger version of Steve demanded, holding Steve down by planting his knee into his chest. It made Steve snort. He'd been lost in the future for so long that he'd almost forgotten how much of a pretentious punk he'd been in the forties.

"I'm not an imposter. I'm from the future. I'm trying to save Bucky."

Younger-Steve's eyes widened. "Why? What happens to Bucky? How far into the future are you from?!" He looked horrified.

"I can't tell you that. Far enough to know what happens after the next few days." He shoved his younger self off of him. "Put that thing away, you're going to hurt someone," he snapped again, yanking his shield back out of the younger man's grip. Forties-Steve stared at him, still looking absolutely horrified. "If you don't let me help you, Bucky's not gonna die, but he's going to suffer a fate far worse than death—at the hands of HYDRA."

Forties-Steve froze, face stuck in horror. "What kind of fate?"

"They're going to brainwash him, wipe his memories, and then turn him into an assassin."

"No…" younger Steve whispered, face still looking absolutely horrified.

"Yeah. And if you don't help me, it'll happen all over again."

Younger Steve sat down in the snow, staring at the older version of him. "How do we save him?" he finally asked, casting a glance through the sparse trees to the camp where the Commandos were sleeping.

"When you pull him behind you to shield him from a HYDRA gun, deflect the blast straight forward, rather than your right. If you deflect it to your right, it will blow a hole in the side of the train that he'll fall out of. Not to mention that directing the blast that way throws you to the other side of the train from him and you're not fast enough to protect him again. So when you pull him behind you, stand your ground. The shield should absorb most of the impact and send the blast forward if you do it right."

"When will this be?"

"Tomorrow."

"And I'll be on a _train_."

"You'll understand when you get there."

"And where are you going to be?"

"In case he does fall, I'm going to be in the ravine to find him before the Russians do."

"Then what?"

"Then, I'll return him to you. And when you go to the hangar—again, you'll understand when you get there—make sure Bucky gets on that plane with you."

"Why?"

"That one I'm _not_ going to tell you. It'd spoil all the… fun."

"And what about you?"

"Once I make sure you two both get on that plane, I'm returning to the future."

"Steve?" a voice called. It was Bucky. Older Steve jackknifed to his feet and disappeared up a tree and into the shadows as a very tired Sergeant Barnes staggered upon younger Steve. "What are you doing? Who are you talking to?"

"Myself," younger Steve answered—completely honestly.

"Well, it's my turn to take watch. So go back and get some sleep."

"Okay." He gave Bucky a one-armed side-hug and they went back to camp. Once they were gone Steve dropped out of the tree, rolled, and straightened up. He silently made his way back to the weird time machine, crawled back into it, and set the controls for the next day, about an hour before the train with Zola on it would take Bucky away from Steve forever.

The machine shook again—not so hard and not so long this time—and he got out.

He wasn't _in_ the ravine, but he was really close.

Silently, he made his way through the woods and picked his way down the slope until he was at the bottom of the ravine. He looked around for anything he remembered—any landmarks so he wouldn't have to search for too long to find Bucky—but everything was different from the bottom.

Steve cursed under his breath but felt a slight vibration tint the air. He started sprinting along the side of the ravine, knowing the train was on its way, barely avoiding slipping on the snow and falling into the river. He'd have to get as far in as possible in case Bucky fell off. _I am_ not _losing him like this again,_ he thought harshly. Even though he was far away from the outcropping the Commandos were sitting on so they could zip-line to the train, he could still hear the sound of the harpoon that shot the cable as it echoed down the frigid canyon.

Or, rather, it would have been frigid, had Steve been anyone but himself.

He could feel the vibrations getting more and more violent, washing his skin with uncomfortable tingling. The train was getting closer—as well as faster. He kept running.

After a moment, the train had arrived. There was no hole in the side of it and Gabe was making his way towards the front.

There was no sign of Bucky or Young Steve.

They must have gone inside a while ago, given Gabe's position.

So they were probably fighting the HYDRA attackers.

Steve kept pace with the train for far longer than he thought he could. Adrenaline rushed through his veins and even though he could barely see what was happening, he saw Gabe crash through the glass at the front of the train—which had happened after Bucky fell originally.

Steve slid to a halt in the snow.

Bucky hadn't fallen.

Steve sent a prayer of thanks towards the high heavens and started the run back to the time machine. It took a little longer because he was a little bit tired, but he'd done it. He'd saved Bucky from falling—from losing his arm—from becoming the Winter Soldier.

He climbed back into the box, folding himself into the cramped space and flicking the knobs for when the bomber plane would take off.

After a few moments of shaking and vibrating, Steve hauled himself out. He was in the huge hangar in the alps, near the door that would open the plane into the sky. He hid behind some crates and waited. All he needed to do was make sure Bucky made it onto the plane when his younger self did. Then, seventy years later, they would both be in the future and everything would be okay. Hopefully. Everything was still evolving.

He waited for almost two hours before the fighting broke out in the hangar. He stayed hidden but watched the _Valkyrie_ start up and start cruising down the huge runway. Steve squished himself down farther.

When the bomber reached him, he saw the younger version of himself on the landing gear extending his hand out for someone in darker clothing on the car that Colonel Phillips was driving.

Bucky.

He leapt, grabbing Steve's hand right as Phillips braked the car. The older Steve stared longingly at Peggy where she was staring off at the _Valkyrie_ as it flew away. Steve relaxed against the wall for a moment, disbelief etched on the lines of his face. He stared at the crates across from him with his jaw slack.

 _I did it. I… did it_ , he thought.

Fighters were getting closer and closer to him. Quickly he climbed back into the box and set the controls for the day in the future he'd left only maybe ten hours before. Maybe.

The shaking and vibrations started up again. Steve didn't know if he should laugh during the trip or cry. Both would be with relief but disbelief. What was going to change when he got back to the future? Was everything going to be okay? He thought he'd done it, but had he?

Because of the longer trip, the crazy shaking between times took longer. Not quite like the three-days that it felt going back to 45, but it took a long time anyway.

Steve settled on laughing _and_ crying. Tears streamed down his face and he cackled.

Then the shaking stopped and he burst out of the cavity of a box to see Wanda looking at him with incredulity and anger. "Where have you been? You have been gone for two hours!" she demanded. Steve raised his eyebrows.

"I have?"

"Yes!"

The door to the room burst open and another angry figure stormed in. "You _ABSOLUTE IDIOT!_ " a furious voice shouted. Steve whirled around to see a tall man—but still shorter than him—looking ticked.

But he had short hair, carefully-styled. His eyes had laugh lines around bright eyes—and two normal arms.

Bucky.

Steve jumped over to his best friend and threw his arms around him. Bucky hugged him back, obviously confused. "What's this for?" he asked.

"I'll explain later," Steve commented.

Bucky hesitated. "Okay?" he wondered.

Another man came in. Steve stared at him. They were still speaking? More must have changed than he thought.

Tony stared between them. "Hey, army bros, we should probably get going."

* * *

 **End Note: I'm so dang proud of this one in particular.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	79. Minding My Own Business (SB-Sam)

**Author's Note: Remember how I said I was giving the Bucky shots a break? Yeah. That's over. Because I have literally exhausted everything else I have written that's _not_ Bucky. So now we're back here! Yay. But, in all honesty, that's okay. _Because!_ I am quite proud of some of these that I've written!**

 **79) Minding My Own Business**

* * *

For the record, I _was_ minding my own business.

Bucky, Sam, and Steve came in the room at the New Avengers Facility where I was eating cereal on a sofa, laptop on the coffee table in front of me, browsing Tumblr idly. I wasn't listening to what they were saying until it went awkwardly silent for a moment. "Hey Bucky," Sam remarked. "Did Steve tell you about the time he jumped on—?"

"Abort!" Steve interrupted.

I looked up from my laptop just in time to see Bucky slowly turn his head in Steve's direction. "You jumped on what?" he asked, voice deadly but eerily calm.

"Just a dummy grenade, in training camp," Sam put in nonchalantly.

Bucky's piercing blue eyes narrowed dangerously, trying to glare a hole through his best friend's _thick skull_. " _Oh really?"_ he said, the hostility in his tone almost palpable. Had I not been there he probably would have been shouting at Steve for being an idiot. His silent fury was terrifying.

The mug he had been holding in his metal left hand shattered, shards cascading to the ground.

It made me jump.

Then the former assassin lashed out his flesh arm, grabbed his best friend by the collar of the shirt, dragged him over to where I was on the sofa, and threw the 220-pound super soldier onto the cushion next to me. "Can I borrow your laptop for a moment?" Bucky asked me.

I clicked out of Tumblr and passed it to him. "Sure?"

"Thanks." He typed something in and shoved the screen to Steve's face. " _This—_ you complete and utter _moron_ —is _all the things NOT to do when I am not here! You were so small and pathetically weak that a STIFF BREEZE could snap you in half!_ You are _not_ supposed to jump on grenades! Now, answer me this, _do I need to get a freaking BACKPACK LEASH for you?!"_ Bucky's tirade was so angry it was almost comical. Steve's eyes were wide but whenever Bucky wasn't looking he'd shoot an irritated scowl at Sam, who was obviously trying his best not to laugh.

I got up and moved to leave with my cereal but Bucky grabbed my wrist.

"No. It's better you're here," he said. Before I could open my mouth to ask why, he continued, "Because if you leave nothing is going to keep me from snapping this idiot's neck."

That was morbid enough to make me sit back down.

"Wait till you hear how he died," Sam commented sarcastically.

Steve glared at Sam while Bucky glared at Steve. "Thanks, Wilson," Steve muttered.

Sam chuckled. This must have been going on all morning. Bucky's overprotective streak that he harbored for Steve—particularly the part where he kept Steve from his own self-destructiveness—wasn't exactly a new subject for entertainment among the team.

"Oh really? How did you die, Steve? Hmm?" It was almost a threat.

Steve at this point was glaring only at Sam. There was a _don't-you-dare_ look in his eyes.

I loved the three of them like brothers—but that didn't mean I didn't like seeing Steve sweat nervously under his best friend's sharp blue glower. "He flew that scary _Valkyrie_ plane into the arctic," I put in. Steve's head whipped around to turn his scowl on me. I shrugged. "What? He was going to find out somehow or other anyway."

Bucky slapped Steve upside the head—thankfully with his flesh arm so his skull didn't crack. "You nitwit! Did you even _try_ to pilot that plane?!" the former assassin snapped.

"Yes!" Steve retorted. "It was on Auto-Pilot and I couldn't get it off or I accidentally destroyed the control or something. In any event there was nothing I could do. Forcing it down was the only option I had! Though, I admit, even if I did know how to fly a plane that was unlike any other, I would have forced it down anyway. I didn't want to keep you waiting!" I gasped almost silently. I'd never heard that bit. "You were dead. I had no one else—even Peggy couldn't be mine to keep. Not with the options I had. Even when I had no one I had you and you were gone. I made the choice to see you again in the afterlife—I didn't know then that you survived. I didn't know I was _going_ to survive." I could feel my eyes start to want to water. "It was the best choice and I was going to see my best friend again."

Even Bucky's anger was diminishing.

I felt a single tear leak out of my eye. I laid my head on Steve's shoulder and held his arm. It was either too early for me to process my emotions correctly or his story struck some chord within me that was making me wanna cry.

He didn't seem to mind.

"You know I _worked_ on the _Valkyrie_ when I was captive, right?" Bucky asked, voice softer than I'd ever heard it before.

"No. I didn't. Because you never told me. Just like you never told me what it was Zola did to you. Or that you were drafted instead of enlisted. I asked and asked about what happened at HYDRA but you never wanted to talk about it," Steve retorted.

"No one is ever going to convince me that you two aren't brothers," I commented.

Sam snorted.

Bucky gave me a smirk and passed me back my laptop. "Well, kid, this idiot here _was_ my little brother for a long time. I had to fight a war against his bullheaded stupidity for _years_ ," he remarked sarcastically. I smiled.

"It was not bullheaded stupidity!" Steve protested.

Bucky raised one eyebrow. "Yes it was," he retorted. "You took on guys who had a hundred and fifty pounds on you—"

"That's a bit dramatic," Steve interrupted.

"—and acted like Reckless was your middle name," Bucky finished as if Steve hadn't even spoken. "You're an absolute idiot with self-destructive tendencies so powerful part of me is surprised you survived that stupid plane crash!" There was a bizarre mix of humor and anger in his voice. He stood up, hauled Steve to his feet with his metal arm, and started to drag him from the room. "We're finding someone to teach your idiot thick skull how to fly a stupid plane," the Winter Soldier growled. Sam laughed his head off and followed after them.

Once they were gone I looked at what Bucky had shown Steve.

It was Steve's file on everything he'd done—on missions, in training camp, even in back alleys. Several of them were highlighted in red. At the top, the key said that red meant Bucky wasn't there when those events happened. I grinned—written at the bottom, in handwriting, was Bucky's penmanship. _I told you to stay home you idiot!_

* * *

 **End Note: Hahahaha! Bucky is the "Mom Friend"/older brother to Steve and no one can convince me otherwise.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	80. Photographs (B)

**Author's Note: I love this one!**

 **80) Photographs**

* * *

"C'mon, Sergeant Barnes. Got a picture of your girl back home we can see?" one of the soldiers asked to pass the time as they were being shipped to Azzano.

Bucky shrugged as he stared at his dog-tags in his hand. "I dated a bit but I didn't have a girl. I was too busy protecting my younger brother from his own self-destructive stupidity and keeping my sister safe," he replied. He could feel the small photographs of him and Steve and him and Rebecca and the three of them together in the front jacket pocket of his uniform. He pulled them out and showed them to the soldier. "That's my brother Steve, and that's my sister Becca." The three pictures were passed around. Steve's pitiful size in comparison to the sergeant's got a lot of comments— _How on Earth is he your brother? That doesn't seem possible!_

Bucky chose to keep the fact that he and Steve weren't blood-related to himself. It didn't matter. They were brothers and that was that. When the pictures made it back to him, he glanced at them. Usually he didn't stare blankly at the small, slightly-damaged-from-constant-weather photos until it was late and the rest of his platoon was asleep.

Rebecca was grinning up at him in the picture, his arm around her shoulders and hers around his waist. She had their mother's eyes—rich dark brown that glimmered with intelligence and humor. They had the same thick dark brown hair—but hers was much longer. It fell to her hips. She was small—which helped the others believe that Steve was actually his brother—no taller than 5'4". If even that. She was wearing one of her favorite dresses. Even though the picture was in black-and-white he could remember the colors—bright blue with vibrant green bursts. When the photo was taken she was one day out of high school.

He missed her. He missed going back to his parents' house for dinner and she would come out of the kitchen and give him the strongest, most heartfelt hug. He missed her telling him how he was her hero—even though he knew he could never be the hero she deserved. He missed escorting her to school in the mornings when she was small, watching her hop and skip and laugh. He missed teaching her how to swing dance in the living room when she was a kid. He missed seeing her every day.

But as much as Bucky missed Becca, he missed Steve more. That punk who picked fights with everything that moved and was the literal personification of a raincloud. The kid born full of too much "fight-me" for a 5'4", blond, 90-pound asthmatic who had so many ailments he shouldn't have even left the house. Ever. He missed Steve doodling on scrap pieces of paper. He missed the art class they were in, despite the fact that Bucky couldn't draw to save his life. But Steve was brilliant at it. He could have been the next Walt Disney.

But no. That idiot wanted to fight.

Bucky shoved the pictures back into his jacket pocket. "How about you, then? Got a picture of your girl?" he asked the solider.

The rest of the platoon took turns passing their pictures around and admiring each other's girlfriends, ignoring Bucky completely—which suited him just fine. He had wrapped himself up in his thoughts and he wouldn't unwrap until the truck stopped. The weather was cold but not terribly so. It wasn't as bad as Brooklyn in winter. Yet.

Rebecca had promised to take care of Steve while he was gone—do her best to keep him out of fights or break up the ones that punk still managed to get into, go over to his apartment every so often to make sure he was eating, just be his friend. Bucky hoped beyond hope she was up to the challenge of keeping Steve out of trouble. Because Rogers wasn't just Bucky's brother—he was part of the Barnes family. One time, before the war, Steve went over for dinner and started to help, but he and Bucky playfully started throwing pinches of flour at each other and Mrs. Barnes had just sighed, chuckled, and said, "I have such messy sons." From there it was just an accepted fact that Steve was the middle child of the family. But whenever Bucky wanted to double-date and couldn't find a girl for Steve, Rebecca always stood in. Steve had gone on more dates with her than Bucky had ever gone on with one girl. For that, Bucky was forever grateful.

The truck shuddered to a stop. They'd reached Azzano.

The other soldiers piled out, leaving Bucky in the truck bed for a moment to give the photos in his pocket one last look. Rebecca's grin, Steve's smile. Happier times captured on pieces of paper.

Then he hopped out, boots hitting the ground.

The moment he looked up, he felt his blood run cold.

The rest of Bucky's platoon was already overwhelmed. There was nothing they could do against weapons like that—the blue energy bursts that _vaporized_ their targets. Bucky grabbed his rifle—being a pretty good sniper—but he knew there wasn't much he'd be able to do for so many men. Most of them were already dust on the wind.

As HYDRA men started getting closer to him, he dropped his rifle and put his hands above his head. A single tear dripped from his eye as he realized that Becca and Steve wouldn't even have a body to bury.

* * *

 **End Note: I know that the _Captain America: The First Avenger_ deleted scene on how Bucky was _actually_ captured makes this hugely inaccurate. I also don't care. I'm sorry if there were any feels included in this one. In the comics Bucky had one younger sister, but on his MCU Smithsonian memorial it said he was the "oldest of four" but I went with the comics version for effect.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	81. Disney Marathon (SB)

**Author's Note: So, as much as I loved that last chapter for feels, I love this one more, simply for the sake of the humor. And... yeah.**

 **81) Disney Marathon**

* * *

"Boys! Boys! Boys! We've been in this room all week. I insist we get out!" I shouted, trying to overpower Steve and Bucky's dramatic duet of _A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes_. I had to admit they were pretty good singers, but they were driving me crazy. How they hadn't already driven themselves crazy was a mystery to me. They wouldn't let me out of the room because they needed someone to run the TV. They were standing on the king-sized bed of one of the guest rooms in Avengers Tower—not that Avengers Tower had many guests—in their pajamas, doing choreography.

Bucky had a tiara in his hair with Aurora's face on the sticker.

Steve was waving a "magic wand" patterned after Elsa.

I don't even know where they'd gotten that stuff.

I had a headache.

They ignored me, moving on to another song. _"Put 'em together and what have you got? Bippidi-Boppiti-Boo!"_

"AT-TEN- _TION!"_ I called in my drill-sergeant voice.

Old habits died hard. They snapped straighter than planks of wood, arms at their sides—though they still had their accessories in hand and on head. I ran my hands over my messy braid and sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of my nose to assuage my headache.

"Boys, we've been in this room all week watching _every_ animated Disney and Pixar movie that has been released since you two went under. Now I get that you two were huge Disney fans back when there were only like six or seven movies. But _we have to get out of this room_. And not just for snacks, meals, bathroom breaks, and sleep at _two in the morning._ You two are driving me insane," I said. For the moment I was grateful the guest room we were in had a high ceiling because earlier the two idiots had been jumping on the mattress singing another dramatic duet of _Son of Man_ from Tarzan and _Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious_ from Mary Poppins. How they already knew all the words was another mystery to me. We'd only gone through all the movies _twice_ —and then the new live-action versions of _Maleficent_ and _Cinderella_.

Why yes, I did say Pixar as well. Steve promised that the next time we went out on a mission together I was getting endless, "Honey? Where's my super-suit? _Where? Is? My? Super-suit?!"_

I was _not_ looking forward to the next time we went out on a mission together.

Bucky licked his lips in thought as I said, "At ease, soldiers." They fell into that more relaxed position they never told me the name of—but I was pretty sure it was called parade rest—and looked down at me on the floor.

"Okay, we'll leave this room— _if!_ " I knew there was going to be an "if". " _If_ you give us your dramatic version of _Let It Go_ ," Bucky decided.

"And if we can go to Disneyland for the weekend," Steve added.

"There's a _Disneyland_?" Bucky demanded urgently, snapping out of his soldier pose to grab Steve's shoulders.

"It opened in nineteen-fifty-five," I supplied blankly, voice defeated. "And for the record, there's like five." Bucky's whole face dropped in shock, surprise, elation, all sorts of almost childish emotions. But the wonder in his normally-guarded sharp blue eyes made the headache worth it. Almost. He started jumping on the bed excitedly. This was a ninety-eight-year-old _deadly_ _assassin_ acting like a five-year-old. No wonder my temples were throbbing.

"Can we go can we go can we go?" he asked quickly.

I put my face in my palm. "Maybe. I can ask Tony if he'll let us borrow the jet."

"Yes!" Bucky cheered. "But first, you have to give us your dramatic version of _Let It Go_. You said you have one. You're not leaving until you do it." He did an assassin's front-flip off the bed and landed firmly in front of the door, folding his arms over his chest. Somehow his tiara stayed on. I groaned in complaint, regretting the sarcastic joke I'd said earlier about that song.

I sighed and turned on the instrumental version. After the introduction, I closed my eyes and threw myself into the character. Because if I was going to do it for them, I was going to do it _right_ and _thorough_. They wouldn't let me _out_ if I sold myself short.

I can't say I'm the best singer in the world, and I _definitely_ didn't have Idina Menzel's lung power, but if I do say so myself I'm just good enough to give a performance just powerful enough that their jaws were dropped by the time I finished. I was out of breath and my throat hurt when I finally got to the last, " _The cold never bothered me anyway_." I should have said I had a great dramatic performance for a different song—one not so tiring. Like _I Won't Say I'm in Love_ or something. But no. I _had_ to say _Let It Go._ What the heck was wrong with me?

Bucky rested his icy-cold metal hand on my shoulder. "I am now going to call you Queen Elsa. For the rest of forever. Wow," he said.

"No. Don't do that," I replied.

"Why not?"

"Because Steve is obviously the snow queen—and the sleeping princess." I stopped myself, looking at the wand in the captain's hand and the tiara on Bucky's head. The Ice Queen and the Sleeping Princess. "Wait. You _both_ are! Frozen and _sleeping_ for seventy years in _ice!_ "

I was exhausted from being with them. What could I say? It was about one-thirty in the morning. The cackle that ripped from my throat was neither dignified nor entirely human-sounding. I fell to the floor, tears streaming from my eyes. My joke was _great!_ I admit, in hindsight, it really wasn't— _but_ I was tired and sick of Disney movies but so immersed in them I saw parallels everywhere.

They were staring at me like I'd gone mad—and to be honest I probably had. Temporarily.

"I think it's time we let you out of this room," Steve decided. He hopped off the bed and eased me out the door. Picking me up in his strong arms, he took me to my room and set me down on my bed. "You remind me most of Elsa, Meg, and Belle," he decided. "Powerful like Elsa, sassy like Meg, and bookish like Belle. Not to mention you look like her—the brown-eyed brunette." He brushed some of my hair out of my face and gave me a kiss on the forehead. Bucky was standing behind him.

"You remind me most of Hercules—a skinny guy with a strong heart turned into a physical wonder," I muttered tiredly. Steve chuckled and withdrew to the doorway. Bucky came and kissed my forehead too. "You remind me most of Tarzan and the Beast. A guy trying to fit in—in a place where he doesn't feel like he really belongs, and a good boy turned into a monster, turned back into a good man." He gave me a smile. "And you're also both my Prince Charmings." They both laughed softly and left me on my own in my bed. I rolled onto my side, facing the wall, and fell asleep.

I woke the next morning to three dresses hanging from my curtain rod. There was a note taped to one of them. _Tony gave us the OK for Disneyland and ordered these—a long time ago apparently. You're wearing one of them on the flight over. Your pick, but you're bringing the others with you for the weekend. Love you, princess—Steve and Bucky 3_

There was a long, pale blue one, a toga-like purple one, and a grand, gorgeous golden ball gown.

I stared between them. They were Elsa, Meg, and Belle's outfits.

They wanted me to wear one of these on the Quinjet all the way to California? That was a four-hour flight (on a commercial aircraft it was six)!

But I pulled one off its hanger and laid it over my bed. I took a quick shower, ate breakfast from my mini-fridge, brushed my teeth, did my hair, and pulled on the dress I'd picked. I threw the other two in a smallish suitcase—along with some normal clothes and other stuff I'd need.

I opened the door to see Steve and Bucky emerging from their rooms across and down the hall—also dressed up with a smallish suitcase trailing behind them. "If I didn't know any better I'd say we were going to ComicCon, not Disneyland," I remarked sarcastically. They both looked up at me and their jaws dropped.

"You need to wear gold more often," Bucky commented.

"You two look _amazing_ ," I told them. And I so meant it. Steve was dressed as Hercules—miniskirt and all—and Bucky was wearing the Beast's fancy outfit from the ballroom scene—just a human version with a bowtie instead of a cravat. With the left sleeve carefully removed. I looked between the two of them. "Next time ComicCon comes around we should just go as this." Bucky and Steve didn't say anything—they were still staring at me as I closed my bedroom door behind me, watching the movement of the dress. I snapped my fingers. "Guys! Let's go before I get another headache from you guys."

They both shook their heads and Bucky offered me his arm. "Belle," he greeted.

"Prince Adam," I replied. After we'd watched Beauty and the Beast I'd explained that they never mentioned the prince's name in the film but that it was Adam.

I'm actually a bigger Disney nerd than both of them.

With Steve leading the way to the Quinjet, we headed off.

Which of course means we ran into the _entire team_ on the launch pad. "Wow," Clint remarked, dry, sarcastic, but impressed. "Y'all make great cosplayers!" Natasha elbowed him in the ribs and he gave her an affronted look. "What? Look at that dress!"

"You two take care of the princess, now, ya hear?" Tony told Steve and Bucky. "If she's got a torn gown or smudged mascara from any tears not caused by joy I'm holding you both personally responsible." They both gave him a bow while I bent down in a curtsey. I felt so ridiculous—not to mention tired—but I looked past it.

"Bye guys. We'll be back on Monday," I said. We boarded the jet. It would be on auto-pilot since none of us could fly it.

"Wait!" Tony shouted. The three of us turned. "You're staying in the castle in the park. I called ahead, told them it was a birthday present for my daughter." It wasn't the first time he'd pretended I was related to him in some way—though usually I was his niece. I gave him one last hug.

"Thank you. This is going to be… as great as it can be with two ninety-something-year-old super soldier Disney nerds and another big Disney nerd to supervise them. But they won't make too much trouble. I'll see to that," I murmured in his ear. "Tell Pepper I'll send her lots of pictures. I've got everything I need." Tony's eyes swept me up and down. He nodded approvingly.

"Good thing you _are_ taking those super soldiers. I'd hate for some other Hercules or Aladdin to fall for you."

I punched him in the arm. "Very funny."

"You look beautiful, kid."

"Thanks Tony. We'll be back on Monday." I went back to the jet and we took off.

"Well, princess, four hours to kill. How do you wanna kill it?" Bucky asked as Steve pulled out a newspaper. He glanced up at us and smirked before turning back to the words on his page. I noticed his hand flick a switch—he'd turned on the security camera.

I stood from my seat in the cargo hold, tossed my iPod to Steve, and offered my hands to Bucky. "Dance with me." I looked over my shoulder at the captain. "Take a guess which song to put it on," I instructed.

"I don't waltz," Bucky remarked.

"Lucky for you it's not a waltz, then," I retorted.

The title song from _Beauty and the Beast_ drifted from the Quinjet's speakers.

We just kind of made up the moves as we went while Steve hummed the melody from behind his newspaper.

I grinned up at Bucky brightly. He gave me a smirk in return.

Ever since I'd met both soldiers my relationship with both of them had been pretty platonic. They'd each taken me out to dinner once or twice to get to know me, but other than that, we were just friends. We watched Disney movies at three in the morning when one of them had a nightmare—though it had always been _Snow White_ or _Pinocchio_ because I was saving the others for the marathon we'd had all week—and we broke into Tony's "secret" stash of ice cream when the others were gone. But I'd always kind of felt like the outsider—they knew each other so well and had shared so much. I was just the girl who stepped in late in the game to help them paste their lives back together for this century—this _millennium_.

But staring up at Bucky, smiling, dancing to a _gorgeous_ piece of music that _shaped_ my childhood, I wondered if I should take one more step forward in my relationship with him. I'd always been closer to him—emotionally related on a deeper level I guess—but I didn't know if I wanted to be _that_ close.

The grip of his left, metal hand around my fingers and his flesh hand on my back just under my underarm tightened as the Quinjet hit a rough patch of air. He pulled me close to his chest, pressing me against him. I looked at his blue eyes. They were glittering with humor. "If you want to say something sarcastic, now would be the time to do it," he commented sarcastically.

I shrugged. "I don't," I replied.

"You have no _idea_ how hard I am shipping you two right now," Steve remarked. "Just give her a kiss already!"

I gave him an appalled stare, jaw hanging open. "Captain Steven Grant Rogers!" I protested as Bucky spun me around, dress flaring out like a gold disc and twisting around my legs. I twirled back into the shorter soldier's hold and gave him a quick grin before glaring at his best friend.

"What?" he retorted. "Look at your outfits! How could I _not_ be shipping you?"

"How do you even know what 'shipping' means?"

" _You_ told me, you big nerd!"

Bucky's hand gently cupped my chin and turned me back to face him. Before I could even ask what he was doing he leaned down…

And kissed me.

Every muscle in my body froze in shock before I relaxed against him, eyes fluttering closed, fingers unintentionally digging into his normal shoulder. His hand slid farther over my back and hugged me closer. I felt his metal hand drop mine and slide to my back as well. My free hand rested on the back of his head, fingers slipping into his soft, still-too-long hair. Steve probably took a picture—or twenty.

The song drifted into its last few notes and ended gracefully.

I pulled away and stared up at Bucky. "Princess," he commented.

A smile tugged up the corners of my lips. "Prince," I replied breathlessly.

* * *

 **End Note: I love Disney. This was inspired by me watching the brand-new, live-action Cinderella with my parents several months ago (which was also when this was written) and remembering how much I loved Disney when I was a kid. I still do, I just don't watch it as much.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	82. Road Trip (SB-Sam)

**Author's Note: I'm trying to get everything updated since my semester just ended so enjoy a few new chapters! (I've never been on a long legitimate road trip before but I want to so I wrote this!)**

 **82) Road Trip**

* * *

"Why can't we take the jet?" I complained as Steve and Bucky picked up my massive suitcase and shoved it in the back of the giant SUV.

Sam chuckled lightly as he put his own bag on top of mine. "Because this is more fun, kid! Don't tell me you've never been on a road trip!" he exclaimed. "Also, shotgun!" He edged around me and hopped in the passenger seat of the car. I shrugged.

"I haven't ever been on a road trip. But the jet would be a lot faster—not to mention safer."

"Don't you trust my driving?" Steve joked.

"Sure, why not? It's other drivers I don't trust."

"We'll be fine," Bucky reassured me. "We're just going to California—"

"Which is a forty-hour drive, not including sleeping and eating and bathroom breaks and all that!" I interrupted, frustrated.

"At the very least you're not sleeping in the same hotel room as we are, so you'll actually sleep," Steve remarked sarcastically. Since I was a girl and two out of three of the men I was travelling with were _extremely_ old-fashioned they had insisted I stay in the room next-door to theirs. "We'll probably stay up all night talking—or playing those card games you hate." I snorted. He was just saying that because I was a monster when I got bad sleep and he probably wanted to avoid dealing with me during the drive. If my math was correct and we drove roughly ten hours per day, it would take four days to get there. We were staying for a week, and then four days back. Honestly. It would be so much better to just take the jet. Not that they'd listen to me.

"C'mon, guys! We're losing daylight!" Sam shouted.

"Daylight just started you moron!" I snapped back. "Which brings me to my next question: why the heck are we leaving at dawn? We couldn't have waited till ten or something?"

"Where is your sense of _adventure_ , child?" Steve demanded jokingly. He hauled his suitcase into the trunk and then Bucky's. Giving me a smirk he circled the car and got into the driver's seat. Bucky, who was still standing next to me, opened my door.

"Trust me, riding to and from places in the war was worse than this. I think you'll be okay," he murmured quietly in my ear. Louder, he continued, "Plus, we're gonna sing songs the entire time! You won't even notice time passing!" I planted my face in my hands the moment I was in the car behind Steve with my seatbelt buckled. Bucky rushed around to the other side and got in. "Let's go!" he exclaimed excitedly. I groaned. Better to just put up with it, I supposed.

After about an hour of just talking, Bucky got bored. " _Ninety-nine bottles of pop on the wall—ninety-nine bottles of pop_ —" he started singing quietly.

" _No!"_ I protested.

" _TAKE ONE DOWN, PASS IT AROUND, NINETY-EIGHT BOTTLES OF POP!"_ Steve and Sam finished in almost perfect sync, belting at the tops of their lungs. " _Ninety-eight bottles of pop on the wall—ninety-eight bottles of pop—take one down, pass it around, ninety-seven bottles of pop!"_ I groaned in complaint and pulled my iPod out of my pocket.

I spent most of the rest of that day listening to as many noisy songs I could think of, attempting to drown them out. They just kept going, though.

Eventually, at "negative-ten bottles of pop on the wall", they finally got bored.

It was around six at night when Sam came up with the worst idea in the history of his bad ideas—"Hey, Steve, how about those two kids in the back play Too Hot?" he asked. I yelped and clapped my hand over my mouth.

"No way!" I protested.

"What's Too Hot?" Steve and Bucky asked at the same time.

"Two people make out without touching each other—except their mouths of course—for as long as they can—first one to touch the other loses. Winner gets to do whatever they want with the loser—within reason of course," Sam explained. I banged my head against the back of Steve's chair, over and over again. Why had I agreed to coming on this stupid road trip with these soldiers? I thought it would be somewhat fun, not embarrassing!

"I don't know, Sam," Steve muttered. Thank goodness _someone_ had a little _reason_ in his brain!

"I'm all for it!" Bucky exclaimed. I whirled to glare at him. "C'mon, it'll be fun. I bet you touch me first."

Crap. He'd challenged my resolve. It was harder for me to back down from a challenge—particularly with these guys. They would never let me live it down if I refused. Thinking back on it later, that was probably their point. I sighed and stared at him for several long moments, pondering. He was giving me a very sarcastically flirtatious look, closed lips grinning—almost seductively. "Bucky," I warned, raising one eyebrow. "Keep looking at me like that and I'll shoot you."

Bucky shrugged. "Don't care. Play with me!"

Sam pulled his camera out of his pocket and clicked a few buttons.

"Fine!" I relented. "Just because I'm gonna win. Now gimme a kiss, you big idiot."

He leaned over the middle seats where our backpacks were and pressed his lips to mine. I bent forward, pressing into the kiss deeper. I knew him. He'd always been a gentleman to me, just like Steve, but I could tell he was interested in me. He wouldn't be able to resist me.

I smiled against our lips and leaned my head slightly to get a better angle.

I felt metal fingers slide through my hair and I yanked away. "Ha! Told you!"

"How can I not keep my hands off you?" he asked.

I leaned against my seat. "I'm a woman. You'll never be able to resist me," I teased.

"Rematch," Bucky said.

"No way," I retorted.

" _Rematch, rematch, rematch_!" Sam and Steve chanted. I snorted.

"Fine. Only 'cause I'll win again and then this guy will owe me _two_ favors!" I conceded.

"What're you going to do him now that you've won?" Steve asked teasingly. I snickered mischievously and glanced at Bucky. I saw a slight note of panic in his eyes.

"Dunno. Maybe I'll just make him teach me how to knife fight for the next several months," I replied.

"That is so much nicer than everything I was picturing," Sam commented.

"Samuel Thomas Wilson!" I exclaimed, scandalized.

"What? If I got to do _whatever I wanted_ to a gorgeous woman, it would _not_ be knife fighting!"

"Well, see, there's a difference between you and me."

"Are you calling me a gorgeous woman?" Bucky demanded, half amused, half offended.

I snorted so loudly I made my nose hurt.

Steve started guffawing so hard he had to pull over to the side of the road. Sam was flustering something about how he meant if he were in a _similar_ situation with some woman and in no way did he mean to imply that he thought Barnes was a gorgeous woman. It didn't matter though because Steve and I were laughing our heads off and Bucky was grinning brightly—it was the first time I'd seen a smile that reached his eyes since he'd mostly recovered. He glanced over at me and gave me a wink. I was still laughing so I didn't manage to do anything in response.

After like ten minutes of us not being able to control ourselves, we finally got back on the road. "Don't think Bucky's little stunt got you out of your rematch, young lady," Sam remarked sarcastically.

"Yes, _Mom,"_ I snapped sassily, thoroughly done with his crap.

"Hey be nice to each other!" Steve warned.

"Sure, _Dad_ ," I retorted.

Bucky was almost _giggling_.

"How come he gets to be Dad?" Sam demanded.

"Because of your nesting habits," Steve joked.

"Because that's what my dad used to say to get me and my siblings to get along. And my mom always called me young lady when she was cross with me. You sounded like my mom and Steve sounded like my dad. End of story," I corrected. I turned to Bucky. "Ready to owe me two favors?"

"That's not going to happen. When I win we'll both owe each other one."

"Except you're not going to win." Before he could protest I leaned across the middle seat and kissed him.

Sam was recording us, I knew that. He hadn't pulled his camera out for nothing. I was definitely going to carefully monitor his Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter accounts to make sure that video did not make it to the internet. Because then my friends from high school would find it and download it, and I would _never_ live it down for the rest of my life. Every high school reunion for the rest of forever would feature that video—at least among my old social group.

I grinned against his lips as I saw his hand twitch towards me before he had to consciously yank it back to him. And I knew I was going to win again. I couldn't claim to know Barnes like the back of my hand, but I knew that back in the forties he was a flirt (courtesy of getting Steve to rant about how good his best friend was) and he wouldn't be able to keep his hands off me for too long. Mwahahaha!

Of course, he held out longer than I thought. It was certainly longer than the time before. I was impressed. But it only took about three minutes of me leaning closer and tilting my head slightly to the side to get him to cave. His normal hand grabbed the back of my neck, metal one grabbing my hand.

Instead of pulling away, cackling that I won again, I put my free hand on the back of his head and slid my fingers through his hair, kissing him deeper. After a moment of feeling startled, he leaned in, metal hand moving from my hand up my arm and to my back. I pressed my face against his and clenched my fingers into a fist in his thick hair.

"Oi! You two! Get out of the rearview mirror!" Steve snapped.

I finally pulled away from the Winter Soldier. "Aye, aye, Captain!"

"Are you going to be anything but snarky the whole trip?" Sam asked.

I nodded enthusiastically. "To be fair, you guys didn't want to take the jet."

The soldiers in the front seat rolled their eyes.

About an hour later we made it to our first motel for the night. Looking around at the kind of shabby neighborhood it was in, Steve suddenly got very apprehensive. "I've changed my mind. I don't want you in a room on your own," he told me. "You never know if there are creeps watching out for a girl on her own."

Bucky shrugged. "I'll stay with her. Then we'll both sleep and I can drive tomorrow. You and Sam can stay up playing card games."

"Should we all just stay in one room?" I asked.

"Well, if we stay in two, everyone can get their own bed," Sam pointed out. "Dunno about you guys but doubling up with _this guy_ —" He jerked his thumb in Steve's direction. "—doesn't sound very appealing."

I chuckled. "Well, it wouldn't be too bad if the smallest one here doubled with the biggest and the two in the middle doubled. It's not ideal but it's cheaper," I pointed out.

"Nah. We'll do two rooms," Steve decided.

Bucky and I shrugged at the same time. "Great. Parents in one room, kids in the other," I remarked.

Sam glared at me. "You know what, kid?" he threatened.

"Yes, Mother?" I replied nonchalantly.

He took a swipe at me that I ducked under.

We checked in and separated for the night. Bucky showered first, then me, then we were climbing into our separate beds, curling up for the night.

Steve knocked right as I was drifting off. Bucky snapped ramrod straight, leaping out of bed and standing at attention. I wasn't sure if that was leftovers from HYDRA or World War II and I was too tired and scared to ask. His past was a very touchy subject. I rolled out of my bed and opened the door while Bucky stood like a plank of wood. "At ease, soldier," Steve remarked. Only then did Bucky seem to realize what was happening and he relaxed. "I just thought I'd make sure you guys were okay—since you are my children. Your mother's out." I smiled and laughed while Bucky chuckled behind me.

"Yeah, we're okay. Have a good night, Dad." He gave me a cheesy wink as he hugged me and then his best friend.

"Sleep well. I'll see you two in the morning."

"See ya." Me and the former assassin got back in our beds and almost instantly fell asleep.

I slept just fine until Sam pounded on the door at ten-minutes-to-dawn. "Up and at 'em, kids!" he called through the door.

"Early bird gets the worm," Bucky muttered.

I laughed so hard I fell off the edge of my bed and landed on the floor.

"We're up, Mother!" Bucky called back.

"Watch it, Barnes!" Sam threatened. Since we could both probably take him out without breaking a sweat it was a pretty empty threat, but it was funny to wind him up anyway.

We got ready, checked out, and got back in the SUV.

" _The Wheels on the Bus go round and round…_ " Sam started singing quietly. I hit my head on the back of Steve's seat again, groaning in complaint.

* * *

 **End Note: Teehee. Hope you enjoyed! I thought this was kinda funny!**

 **Thanks for reading! It means a lot to me that you guys stuck with me through my unplanned hiatus!**

 **~Cass**


	83. I Told Them I Enlisted (B)

**Author's Note: If you like, you can see this one as a prequel to "Photographs", or you can see it as a stand-alone. It works either way.**

 **83) "I Told Them I Enlisted."**

* * *

"What's got you down, young man?" the elderly bartender—whose nametag identified him as Stan—asked, curious and genuine.

"I told them I enlisted," Bucky muttered dejectedly, staring at the bottom of his empty glass.

"Who?"

"My younger sister and best friend."

"But you weren't." It wasn't a question.

Bucky shook his head. "Drafted." He sighed. "I don't want to go overseas. I want to stay home and take care of them. They both need me. My best friend is a self-destructive idiot with a case of terminal stupid that picks fights with everything that moves and my little sister is too young—she's only eighteen. I want to watch her grow. I'd rather stay home and my pipsqueak of a best friend wants to be the one going."

The bartender leaned over the counter and rested his wizened hand on Bucky's shoulder. "Listen to me son," he started. "We all do things we'd rather not do. And sometimes we do those things for the wrong reasons. But maybe you going away will teach them both something about themselves that they couldn't learn otherwise with you here. So if you want to keep telling them you enlisted, that's up to you. But at the very least remember that you're going away for the right reasons. America has spent most of its time as an independent country fighting in some war or other. America has fought hard with the blood of its men to be the glue that keeps the world together. Now it's just your turn."

Bucky chuckled. "My best friend, Steve, is far more patriotic than I am. If you told him that, the fact that he has asthma and about eighty-seven other ailments would _not_ stop him from swimming across the ocean to fight in the war."

The bartender—Stan—grinned. "You know, kid, maybe you'd do well to take a page out of your friend's book."

"I wouldn't be going unless I absolutely had to," Bucky muttered—mostly to himself—still staring at the bottom of the empty glass.

"Right now America is fighting a war on two fronts. In Europe and in the Pacific. Most other nations wouldn't be able to handle that. Just don't be fighting a war on two fronts within yourself," Stan commented. Bucky looked up. The old man grinned, eyes twinkling behind his brass glasses. "And, when you get back, they'll both have learned something, and you'll all be better for it."

"What if I don't come back?"

"Don't think like that because then you won't fight to come home to them. And if they need you as much as you say they do, then you're gonna have to fight real hard for them. Don't you _ever_ think that you may not come home, you hear, son?"

Bucky nodded. "I hear you.

Stan nodded, satisfied. "Good. Now get on up and go spend as much time with your friend and your sister as you can before they ship you off overseas!"

For the first time in a while, Bucky felt like a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. "I will!" He jumped off his stool, paid for the drink that he'd had, and rushed out of the bar. With a quick stride he made his way back to his parents' house. "Becca? You home?" he called. There came a rumbling from the next room over. His little sister appeared at the end of the hall, hair flying around her shoulders and dress fluttering around her knees. A huge smile lit up her face.

"James!" she exclaimed, running forward. She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tight. "I didn't think you were coming here tonight!"

Steve Rogers came out behind her, hands covered in flour. Over Becca's shoulder he gave Bucky a grin and a wave. Bucky gestured for him to come over. Becca opened her hug to one side and they had a three-way embrace.

Bucky closed his eyes, savoring the feeling of the arms of the two most important people in his life. He could smell Becca's perfume under the scent of cookies that lingered on the smaller kids' clothing. He could feel Steve's skinny, wiry arm holding onto his back as hard as he could. He could feel Becca's heartbeat against his side. He squeezed them both as hard as he dared—for a moment remembering that Steve was very breakable and Becca pretended to be. A smile pulled up the corners of his mouth as he took a deep breath, wanting this moment between him and the two he loved the most in the world to never end.

* * *

 **End Note: I still think this one is just cute.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	84. The Asset and the Scientist (B)

**Author's Note: This was a request! Quite a fun one!**

 **84) The Asset and the Scientist**

* * *

Science. You like science. You never particularly counted on it becoming your life when you were a kid, but you went to college, you blew up stuff, and then you were hired by SHIELD.

You still aren't sure you know exactly how you got indoctrinated into HYDRA. You just were. But unlike the others, you were still a good person. Just ended up working for the wrong crowd. But, like your friend Simmons had once said, your loyalty was to science. You didn't care who gave you the opportunity to do science.

You stride into the bank in Washington DC, lab coat drifting around your knees.

Your heart never aches as much as it does for the Asset. He's beautiful in a tragic sort of way. If his hair was shorter and cared-for and he was shaved he would be handsome. If he wasn't brainwashed he'd probably be a stand-up guy. A good man.

As it is, he's leaned back in the chair, chained to it, half-naked, beat-up, and injured beyond belief, but he looks angry.

In fact, angry might be an understatement.

"Doctor," one of the underling technicians says to you in greeting. "He's unstable, erratic."

You shrug. "He'll listen to me," you say.

"He hasn't been listening to anyone," the tech remarks.

"That's their problem. Not mine," you retort sassily.

"Doctor—" a man in SWAT gear starts.

"Leave us," you interrupt. "Everyone. This is under control." After you snap at the others, the bank vault is vacated. You turn back to the Asset. His blank, hollow, pale blue eyes stare at you pleadingly. You see pain in them. You stroke his face lightly, lacing your fingers into his. You're still not sure when you fell in love with the experimental assassin. Sometime when you were helping upgrade his arm maybe. The childlike innocence that this _killing machine_ had, the beauty to his eyes. It was enough to fall in love with. You kiss his forehead and go back to examining him. "Well, you'll live," you decide.

He bows his head and mutters something you don't understand in a foreign language. Had it been Russian you probably would have understood it. But it wasn't. It was something else. And it was quiet. So quiet you almost don't hear it. When he looks back up at you his eyes are in pain—agony. You've never seen him like this before. You've seen him beaten up and bruised. You've seen him cut up and bleeding. But you've never seen him broken.

"We could run away," he whispers. "Get away from here—from them." His lips are near your ear as you examine his bare back, running your fingers over his powerful muscles, feeling for tears, bumps, and bangs. When he speaks you pull back to look at him. Your eyes are wide—he knew that speaking was against protocol.

"How? Where could we go that they wouldn't find us?" you whisper back. "You probably have a tracker on you. Heck, I probably do too."

He simply stares at you for a moment. "We could run away. Together," he repeats.

You want that more than anything. To be with him and to be free. You didn't mind working for HYDRA at first, when you were given the tools for science, but as you learned more about them, it became harder and harder.

"Oh J—" You're about to say his real name—which you got from his file—when the door to the vault bursts open. You whirl around, leaping dutifully to your feet. "Mr. Pierce," you greet respectfully, bowing your head slightly to show submissiveness. The cold eyes of the older man just stare at you for several long seconds. He doesn't say anything, doesn't do anything, just stares. He's holding his phone limply in his hand, just unblinkingly watching you.

It's unnerving.

Then he presses his phone screen. The restraints near the chair clamp around the Asset's arms, holding him in place. The pain in his eyes is replaced by fear.

"Tell me, Doctor," Pierce starts nonchalantly. "How do you feel about the Asset?"

You raise your eyebrows. "He is a very powerful weapon—with remarkably advanced healing. Not to mention his arm is the pinnacle of—"

"That's not what I meant," Pierce snapped.

"Sir?"

"Emotionally. How do you feel emotionally?"

Your heart stutters in your chest. "Professional only," you lie. "I'm a scientist. Scientists are trained to be objective. Don't get too attached. Don't feel anything for experiments because they're experiments. Nothing more."

Pierce says nothing for a moment, just staring at you. There's a relaxed nonchalance to his stance.

Which makes you even more surprised when you're suddenly on the ground in a quivering heap, muscles refusing to cooperate. You're lying on your side, staring at the Asset's scared eyes as you tremble uncontrollably.

You've been tasered!

Pierce plucks the barbs from your abdomen skin and turns calmly to the Asset. "It's a shame she started to fall in love with you," he remarks. "She tampered with the machines. Tried to help you remember if you were someone before you were ours. It really is sad. I would have preferred that she lived. She's such a valuable asset." Your blood runs cold in your veins as he talks. He's going to kill you. Yes, you tampered with the machines. What they were doing to the Asset wasn't even _remotely_ humane. It was awful and it hurt you to see him like that.

The Asset struggles against the restraints for a moment while all you can do it watch. Pierce rolls his eyes and turns to you. He pulls a baton off a table. It's one of the ones that you've seen HYDRA and SHIELD agents alike use—so you know it's electrified. And it will do some serious damage. Were your muscles working you would have tensed them in an attempt to feel less pain. But your brain's electric impulses to your muscles have shorted out and your body isn't responding.

Alexander Pierce lowers the baton and presses it against your back. He thumbs the button for a moment, thoughtfully. Then the pain starts.

A shriek of agony rips from your throat as fire burns over your nerve endings. The shriek is cut off by a choked sob.

The Asset watches on, trying to break free of the huge bands of metal holding him and his Vibranium limb back from ripping the director of HYDRA apart. He's grunting, but not shouting. You're writhing on the floor, tears streaming, uncontrollably, from your eyes. Through your blurred vision, you look at the pale assassin, trying to tell him, with your eyes, that you're okay.

Even though you're not. You're so obviously not that it's almost pathetic.

Pierce picks up another thing from the table, setting the baton down.

In his hand is a whip.

"J-James," you stammer through your weakened state, blinking more tears out of your eyes. "It's okay. It's okay." You're trying to reassure yourself more than him, though, if you're being honest.

Suddenly, as a _crack_ echoes through the room and the skin on your back rips open—reddening your white lab coat—there is a horrible _wrenching_ noise.

And the sound of metal shrieking resounds through the bank vault.

The Asset rips his prosthetic arm out of its restraint and uses his hand to tear the others off his flesh arm. Pierce stares at him blankly—like he's not even sure what's happening—and you watch with drooping eyes. You're weak, and in so much agony you're not sure if you're dreaming or not at this point.

The Asset—James— _backhands_ Pierce, throwing him across the wide room and into some safety-deposit boxes on the far wall. As the older man slides down the locks-and-plates, the Asset wastes no time in scooping you into his flesh arm, ripping the door to the vault off, and leaving as fast as possible.

Yeah. You're pretty sure you're dreaming. This is just a pain-induced hallucination.

The sway of his run is just your own nausea. The warmth of his bare chest against your side is really your own blood. It has to be. The Asset had never broken out of those restraints before. And you have never tampered with those.

Every time you close your eyes, you hear his voice, softly, whispering your name, accompanied by, "Do not fall asleep. If you do, you may never wake up."

After a long time, darkness gathers overhead. You blink. Sometime during the day your eyes had run out of tears to cry. Your face is covered in salt tracks and your own blood from the whip splattering it over you. Your brain at some point regained control of your muscles, but you have no strength to use them. Not with the pain that is killing your back.

The darkness suddenly vanishes, replaced by blinding white LED lights. A gurney is wheeled under you and the Asset sets you down on it. He caresses your face with both hands. "You have to run, now. I have to go back. Don't try to find me and don't draw attention to yourself."

You grab his normal wrist. "I love you. I know I shouldn't but I do," you croak out.

Through your blurry eyes you see him smile—the first, only, and last time you ever will. "I know. And I love you too. You did everything for me. Gave me everything. But we would never have worked."

"You don't know that," you joke, voice quivering.

"Actually I do. But now you'll never see me again. I love you." He kisses your forehead tenderly, not even caring about the blood splatters. Then he gives you a gentle kiss on your lips.

Just as you're about to beg him to stay, to run with you, everything turns black.

* * *

 **End Note: Tell me what you thought if you want! (If not, that's fine! I'm just curious. It was my first request writing second-person with Bucky.)**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	85. Clarity (B)

**Author's Note: This one is somewhat based on a song of the same name. Enjoy!**

 **85) Clarity**

* * *

Bucky grabbed my shoulders, staring straight into my eyes. I stared back, eyes wide. "We can't work. I love you but I'm not willing to go through everything that could put you in danger. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me but I'm not good for you!" he spoke loudly, gaining the attention of several people on the crowded New York City streets. I glanced around at all of them and bowed my head.

"You're the best thing that's ever happened to me too! Why are you not good for me?"

"Because you're so breakable and I'm so good at breaking things! It'd be so easy for me to go to caress your face and end up crushing your skull! This thing doesn't do 'gentle action' very well!" Bucky flailed his metal left arm for a moment.

Yeah. We were definitely gaining lots of onlookers now. It wasn't like a loud breakup in the middle of NYC was an uncommon thing, but when it was two _superheroes_ —that got people to watch no problem. Even though neither Bucky nor I would particularly consider ourselves heroes. I was the girl with no powers and no enhancements whatsoever—I just got stuck with the team because the archer had a thing for taking in strays and I was a lethal little puppy. And Bucky was the former-villain-assassin who didn't belong because his old programming still hadn't been completely erased. Which was probably why we started dating. Neither of us felt like we were supposed to be where we were.

"I'm not _that_ breakable!" I snapped, angry tears filling my eyes. I could hear shutters and see camera flashes going off. People were taking pictures of the Avengers-Couple breaking it off.

"Of course you are! You're a normal, good, _beautiful_ human and I'm a _monster_! I love you but we can't be together!"

I took a step back, breaking away from where his hands held my shoulders. "You're wrong."

"I'm sorry. But I'm not. Goodbye." He turned on his heel abruptly and stormed away. People on the streets cleared a path for him. That glare and the murder strut were enough to part any crowd and with his stormy glower, there wasn't one person in his way.

I stood right where he left me for several moments, tears streaming down my face. I wiped them off on the sleeve of my sweater—or rather, the one that belonged to Natasha but she insisted I wear it—but they just kept flowing. I stared at the powerful muscles of his receding back, eyes carefully tracking the movements of his prosthetic arm. His T-shirt hid the tension of his shoulders but I knew it was there by the way he walked practically straight-backed.

A small sob escaped my lips. People were staring at me, mumbling to each other.

Finally I whipped my hair off my shoulders, put my face in my hands for a moment, turned on the ball of my foot, and ran back towards the Tower.

I burst through the doorway and ran straight for the elevator. Once its sleek metal doors closed and shut me away from the eyes of prying New Yorkers, I collapsed on the floor and cried as the lift bore me all the way up to the top floor. Still wiping away salt tracks, I piled out of the elevator and looked at the waiting team clustered around several monitors and screens.

Steve and Natasha noticed me first. "Dang girl, you were _selling_ it! Even _I_ thought you and Bucky just broke up for real," the Black Widow remarked. Steve said nothing. He just crossed the floor and wrapped me in his big arms. Even though the breakup was staged for the protection of both me and the Winter Soldier, it still hurt like we actually did it. Bucky wouldn't return to the Tower until later in the evening—still looking furious—so Steve had to hold me together while I sobbed the rest of it out. You know that point in crying where you're not even sure _why_ you're crying anymore and you're just hiccupping and you can't stop? Yeah. I reached that point. I couldn't control it and I was shaking.

"It's okay. I've got you. And Bucky will be back soon and this will all be over."

"Except now my relationship with him has to be completely private."

Steve nodded, chin resting on the top of my head. "Yeah. But the team knows and you can still be affectionate around the Tower and the Facility upstate. So it's not like you can only have a stolen kiss when no one is watching."

"Fair point," I conceded.

After several hours, I finally got control of my sobbing and Bucky came back. The second he was out of the elevator in a windowless room, I threw myself into his arms. He caught me around the waist and let me wrap my legs around his hips, leaving kisses all over my face and neck. "That was the most painful thing I've ever done and I never want to do it again," he whispered. I rested my face on his flesh shoulder and sighed with relief. We'd never gone so long without even so much as a hug—even back before we were dating.

"Me neither," I agreed.

"You're the piece of me and my soul that I wish I didn't need," he remarked as he stroked my hair with his normal hand.

"What? Why?"

"Because that makes everything hurt even worse. But I do need you—more than a sunflower needs the sun. You are everything. And I can't believe that I'm yours and I get to kiss you just because I can." And he left another trail of kisses down to my shoulders and collarbones. I nuzzled my face into his chest and just breathed him in. He smelled like the chocolate chip cookies we made yesterday.

I recognized that some of those very poetic things he said were song lyrics. But I couldn't bring myself to care.

Tony came in at that moment, waving a tablet. "Well, you guys gave off an impressive performance. Every tabloid and newspaper with nothing better to write about in town just ran a story on the newly-broken-up couple," he commented. I climbed off Bucky's torso and looked at the screen.

"We did it," I mumbled. Bucky wrapped his arms around my shoulders.

"We certainly did."

* * *

 **End Note: :-D**

 **Thanks for reading!**


	86. Gentle Touch (B)

**Author's Note: Bear with me. This one was something of an experiment. Next one's much better.**

 **86) Gentle Touch**

* * *

Bucky knelt only two inches from her, barely breathing in fear of waking her. She was sleeping peacefully on the sofa in the Tower, a blanket draped over her small form. She was curled on her left side facing out, hair haphazardly splayed over the throw pillow. He licked his lips in thought and reached out—as if to stroke her face.

As the silver of his prosthetic glinted in the corner of his vision, he snatched his hand back, holding it to his chest with his normal hand. A tear slipped out of his left eye and a choked sob burst from his throat.

Shockingly she slept through it.

Bucky jerked his arms in frustration, trying not to punch himself in the knees because he knew he'd break them. She was so beautiful and he felt so _drawn_ to her. But she was just so utterly _breakable!_ He could crush her skull when he went to touch her hair. He could try to brush some of her hair from her face and snap her neck. He could try to wipe her tears and shatter her cheekbone. He had no sense of touch in his prosthetic arm. The thing wasn't made for _gentle actions_. It was given to him to destroy—to kill—to _murder_. And that was all he'd ever be. A destroyer and a murder. He could never be anything more than the weapon they turned him into. The monster.

He looked at where a small wisp of her graceful hair fell across her face, brushing against her cheekbone.

Again, Bucky reached out his left hand—because of the way she was lying he _had_ to use his left hand. He stared at his slightly-curled fingers where they hovered inches from her face. He licked his lips and extended his arm a little closer, tilting his wrist.

Concentrating so hard he started sweating in the air-conditioning, he set his fingers on her skin. He couldn't feel it but he desperately wished he could. Keeping his eyes concentrated firmly on where his fingers rested against her skin, he brushed that wisp off her cheek and tucked it gently behind her ear. She stirred from the chill of his fingers but didn't wake up.

Bucky exhaled the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Relief spread over his features and he smiled to himself.

"And what are _you_ grinning at?" Steve whispered, walking in. Bucky whirled around, throwing an instinctive punch that Steve was expecting and caught. "Whoa Buck. It's just me. Calm down." Bucky dropped his fist to his side and grinned giddily at his best friend. "What?"

"I pushed her hair out of her face— _gently_ —and didn't crush her skull!"

Steve smiled. "Have you been wanting to gently brush her hair out of her face for a while, now, Bucky?" he teased.

"Well… no. But I wanted to see if I could be… gentle."

Steve chuckled and gave his friend a one-armed hug. "You were always a gentleman. Why would now be any different?"

"I don't know. Seventy-something years, a metal arm created for the purpose of being used as a weapon, and several dozen brain-wipes later… I can see why something would be different," Bucky remarked, sarcastic but quiet. Steve pulled Bucky out of the room so they wouldn't wake her up. "She was just… innocently lying there with some hair on her cheek and I wanted to… see… if… to see if I could be kind and gentle for once. Not just the weapon that HYDRA created."

Steve chuckled and patted Bucky on the back. "You're still a gentleman. Nothing HYDRA did changed that. And I know how much you like her—both romantically and otherwise. You should ask her out some time. Try holding her hand. You're not a weapon or a destroyer anymore. You could totally do it. Just try."

Bucky cast an apprehensive glance over his shoulder back into the room where she was sleeping. "That might not be a good idea. It took a lot of effort to be so… soft. It didn't feel right. My arm didn't seem to like it," he muttered.

"Well then, you'll have to reprogram it."

"I may have been a science nerd back in the day, Rogers, but I have no idea how to reprogram this thing." Bucky vaguely gestured to his arm.

"That's not what I meant."

"Huh?"

"Your arm's 'programming' is in your brain. You have to reprogram yourself."

"Easier said than done."

"Not necessarily. Go stroke her face to gently wake her up. And then ask her out to dinner or something. Quite honestly you can do whatever you want but she'd be good for you and you'd be good for her. Go get her." Steve slapped his friend on the back and pushed him back into the room where she was sleeping. Bucky took a few tentative steps closer to her and knelt near her head again. He reached out his left hand, closing his eyes for a moment while it hung in empty space and concentrated. Biting his lower lip he set his fingertips to her cheek and trailed the metal down her face. He was holding his breath, fearful that he'd hurt her—

When her eyes fluttered open. "Did I fall asleep?" she asked, confused and curious.

He smiled. "For a little while," he replied. She grinned and sat up. His hand followed her up from where he was still touching her skin. "Would you… like… to… would you like to go out to dinner with me tomorrow night?"

A grin pulled up the corners of her face. She lifted her own hand to his and held it. "I'd love to!"

* * *

 **End Note: Aww! Cute right? (Right?)**

 **Thanks for reading! Leave a comment or a question if you have one or if something wasn't clear!**


	87. Farm Boy (B)

**Author's Note: I** ** _loved_** **writing this one so much! It was so much fun! XD Enjoy!**

 **87) Farm Boy**

* * *

Bucky hauled his bag out of the back of the car, dragging mine with it. "So, what are we doing here?" he asked, looking at the rural farmhouse. "Is this Clint's family's place?"

I sighed heavily. "No. It's a safe-house. A recovery place. I've been assigned to keep you safe while you recover. So we're gonna be spending a _lot_ of time together." There were liberal amounts of sarcasm in my tone—which made Bucky chuckle.

"What, not a one-guy kind of girl?" he joked.

"No I definitely _am_ a one-guy kind of girl. Except the one guy isn't usually an ex-Soviet assassin fluent in thirty-six languages and eighty-five ways till Sunday to kill any given target," I retorted, probably exaggerating, moving to grab my bag from the ground. He slapped my hand away and grabbed the handle, giving me scolding look. "You do realize I'm a grown-up girl and can handle my own suitcase right?" He gave me a grin and a wink before proceeding to close the back hatch of the car, take up his own duffel, and stroll casually up the front steps and into the farmhouse.

"Yeah. But I'm from an older time and I like treating girls like they're princesses," he replied.

"Aw thanks," I remarked, following him and locking the car door behind us.

Bucky set our bags down just inside the front door and went on-guard. "Stay here. I'm gonna make sure we're alone." I rolled my eyes.

"This is a safe-house. No one knows it exists except Director Coul— _Fury_ and anyone else who's ever been here before. We're gonna be alone. No one has any reason to think it might be here. Don't worry," I started. But Bucky ignored me and went prowling through the two-story farmhouse anyway, completely on guard with all his muscles tensed—particularly across his shoulders and back. I watched him move, expression bored but eyes devouring him. He was powerful. It was impressive.

"We're good," he decided after a few minutes.

"Great," I remarked sarcastically. "I expected nothing less."

He shot a glare at me out of the corners of his icy blue eyes that I pointedly ignored in favor of checking to see if there was food in the kitchen. _Oh thank Heaven,_ I thought when I opened the fridge to see it well-stocked. That meant I didn't have to make a half-hour drive to the nearest store in the near-dark. "Want some dinner?" I called over my shoulder.

"Sure," Bucky remarked. His voice was so close he could have been right behind me.

Startled, I yelped and whirled around to see him standing only about five inches from me. "Sorry," I apologized. "I thought you were still in the foyer." He smiled, closed-lipped and eye-crinkling. It was incredibly charming and admittedly attractive.

"It's okay," he dismissed.

I busied myself by turning around and beginning to make us both something for dinner. I admit, I am a field agent and know very little about actual cooking. When I was in deep cover in Romania for three years, living completely alone, I hardly ever cooked anything for myself. Maybe every so often I'd make something my mom used to cook, but that wasn't often. But, either way, I still made a decent meal for both of us. Bucky had boosted himself onto the counter as I did my best and just watched me, smiling. That grin on his face turned from closed- to open-lipped so I could see his teeth.

The rest of the evening was pretty quiet. We ate, didn't do much afterwards, and went to bed.

I woke up the next morning with a stupid song stuck in my head. I rolled out of my bed across the hall from Bucky's room and put on my clothing. Jeans, T-shirt, Converse hi-tops. I brushed out my hair, pulled it into a ponytail, and trotted down the stairs.

Bucky had made pancakes in the kitchen, but was outside, sitting on the porch swing. He was wearing a T-shirt that was slightly too small, faded blue jeans, and sturdy boots.

He spent about three days out on that swing.

I busied myself as best I could for that time. He only came in when he wanted something to eat, drink, or if he needed to go to the bathroom. What little he spoke was always flirtatious or completely downtrodden. There was no in between. I would go out around sunset and tell him I was headed off to bed soon. He always came in while I was getting my pajamas on. He was asleep after me and awake before I was.

On the fourth day I went outside and sat on the front steps early in the morning while he was on the swing. I had elected to stay in my pajamas because it was _crazy stupid early_ and I was _not_ a morning person. At all. I looked pensively out over the fields and the long drive that eventually led to the main road. It was kind of chill, for early summer—which was probably why Bucky had like three mugs of coffee on the swing next to him (all empty). I sighed heavily. "Garden kind of looks barren," I commented nonchalantly.

"What?" he asked blankly.

I stood up. "Just something to think about. Tending to something is good therapy. There're tools in the shed." Giving him a quick wink I retreated back inside.

Not long after, while I was cleaning my breakfast plate, I saw him stand up and head to the side of the farmhouse where the shed was. I grinned and went back to being domestic. I did some of our laundry, folded it, put Bucky's stack on his bed, and started cleaning the house. I didn't like cleaning much, but in the event of home invasion I didn't want to be tripping on the blanket I left sprawled over the sofa after I'd watched Jurassic Park on my own the night before as Bucky wasn't one for pop-culture movies.

Mid-afternoon, when I realized that Bucky hadn't come inside _at all_ for several hours—not even for food, coffee, or bathroom—I went outside with a sandwich to make sure a) he ate, and b) he hadn't been brutally murdered or something. Since our life was such that getting brutally murdered in a garden in the middle of nowhere wasn't entirely unfeasible. Which was kind of sad in a way. It was kind of a tough life to live.

I found him under the tractor, his jeans and boots sticking out from under the belly of the huge thing. I coughed loudly to announce myself. "Are you okay, Sergeant Barnes?" I asked, carefully choosing how to address him. "You didn't come in for lunch and I got worried." I set the paper plate with his late lunch on the hood of the tractor.

"Yeah. Fine. You were right. It's very relaxing to keep my hands busy. You may have to help me clean the gunk off my metal arm later through," he answered. I could hear a smile in his tone.

I smirked. "That's not a problem," I replied. "I brought you out a sandwich."

"Thanks Agent Howell." He slid out from under the tractor with a grin and instantly I froze.

He was completely shirtless. There was black grease on his cut torso and he was _gleaming_ with sweat. I very suddenly felt very awkward and the early summer afternoon heat seemed to get even hotter. I licked my lips. "Um… well… I guess… I'll just… leave you to it," I muttered, turning to leave.

His metal hand grabbed my bare ankle. "What's wrong?" he asked—almost teasingly.

I shook my head. "Nothing. Just didn't expect to see you not wearing a shirt."

He chuckled and stood up. "What? Am I making you uncomfortable?" he teased. I cleared my throat as he took a half-step closer so his fevered body was literally two inches from me.

I cleared my throat. "A little," I admitted.

He laughed. "For a hardened field agent you seem quite easy to embarrass."

"Usually when an attractive shirtless assassin is this close to me it's because I manipulated him and have him in a headlock with a knife at his throat." I moved to take a step back—more for the sake of personal space than anything else—but his flesh hand caught my waist and he pulled me back to where I was. He tilted his head slightly to the side and forward and gave me a little smirk. His pale blue eyes glittered with humor. He licked his lips.

"C'mon, little angel, you like the view," he teased.

For being an emotionally broken and mentally stripped patient I was supposed to be "taking care of", he was remarkably flirtatious.

I gave a little cough and took a step back. "I'll… uh… let you get back to your tractor."

And I fled without waiting to hear his response—though I was pretty sure I heard him laughing. Once I reached the farmhouse I rushed inside, up the stairs, and into my bedroom. I stayed there for a long time—until I heard Bucky come in and get in the shower. Then, while the water was running, I grabbed some food and went back up to my room.

The water shut off just as I finished my snack. After a few minutes of me still feeling _immensely_ rattled, there came a knock to my door.

"I know you're in there," Bucky commented. "I'm sorry. You were just so flustered. I couldn't help myself. Please come out." I didn't say anything, just glared at the closed door and heard a big sigh from the Winter Soldier. "Agent Howell, you do realize that I have an arm made of Vibranium that can rip this lock off, right?" I very pointedly continued my silence. " _Please_ come out! I know you can hear me." Very suddenly he paused. "Maybe she's got her headphones in," he mumbled. He knocked louder. "Can you actually hear me?"

Finally I stood up and opened my door. "Yeah."

He grabbed my shoulders and gave me a kiss.

I completely froze again, not sure what to do. When he pulled away and smiled—almost seductively—I smiled back. "So, whaddaya say, cowgirl?" he asked. "Wanna cuddle up under a comfy blanket and watch one of those pop-culture movies you love so much?"

"Absolutely— _farm boy."_

* * *

 **End Note: Gah! Love it! A bit longer than usual and at least mildly funny!**

 **Thanks for reading! Love y'all!**


	88. Ankle Tracker (B)

**Author's Note: MASSIVE shout out to PadawanLilia for leaving a bunch of reviews on a bunch of one-shots all at once! I was so surprised to see all of them! It made me** ** _very_** **happy! And thank you to everyone else who reviews!**

 **88) Ankle Tracker**

* * *

"Hey! Do you want to go over to the café with a bunch of us and grab some dinner?" one of my friends asked. I licked my lips thoughtfully.

"I can't," I muttered, lifting up my right pant leg to reveal the white band secured around my ankle. "If my uncle sees me go anywhere but to and from campus he'll have a conniption." My friend's eyes widened and she bent down to look at the anklet. After a moment of poking it to make sure that it was indeed what she thought it was, her mouth dropped open and she looked up at me.

"Your uncle put you in an ankle tracker?!" she demanded.

"Yup."

"Why?"

"Punishment. I botched a mission," I admitted.

"What do you mean, a mission?"

"Remember two weeks ago when I was gone all week and told you I was sick?"

"Yeah…" she edged.

"I wasn't. I was in Bucharest," I told her.

"The heck were you doing in Romania?"

Awkwardly I scratched at the back of my head. "I was… uh… taking out a crime ring."

" _What?!"_ she screeched, earning us a few looks from other students walking by.

I nodded. "Yeah…" I trailed off. "And it didn't quite go to plan. So now I have to be monitored."

A black sedan pulled up to the drop off/pick up lane out the window I was looking through and parked. After a moment a tall man got out of the driver's side on the far side of the car. He had carefully-styled brunet hair and wicked blue eyes. There was a blank stare on his face that looked like steel and he was gazing right at me.

His left arm lifted and rested on the top of the car.

It was metal.

"Op! There's my ride! See you tomorrow!" I grabbed my backpack from the ground and heaved it onto my shoulders. My friend eyed me warily as I waved and ran out the door. I opened the rear passenger-side door and slid in. "Evening, boys!" I greeted as the driver ducked back in. Sitting next to me was a man about the same height as the driver with wavy silver-white hair and bright electric blue eyes. In front of me was a man taller than the other two with dirty blond hair gelled in a very old-fashioned style. I couldn't see his eyes from where I was but I knew they were crystal blue and ringed by the longest eyelashes I had ever seen. "Please tell me I get to take this awful thing off and all of you are here because we're going somewhere exciting!"

Bucky Barnes, Pietro Maximoff, and Steve Rogers all remained silent. Bucky put the car in gear and began to drive away. I sighed heavily and waved to my friend one last time.

"So _that's_ how it is," I remarked. "Not only am I getting punished by wearing an _ankle tracker_ night and day, but I'm also getting the silent treatment from my best friends!" Dramatically I leaned against the window and opened my mouth to keep complaining until I got a response.

Bucky cut me off by raising his flesh arm. "Zip it," he snapped. "We're tearing that thing off of you and promptly flying back to Bucharest before Tony or Clint can stop us. We're finishing the mission. Properly this time. And you're coming with us." An excited smile lit up my face as Pietro grinned mischievously and Steve smirked in the side-view mirror.

"Ohhh! Thank you!" I breathed.

"When we're back at your apartment, drop off your school stuff and get your mission stuff," Steve put in.

When we finally reached the small place where I lived, I threw my backpack on the sofa and ran to my bedroom down the hall. Sure balancing my college life with my Avenging life was difficult as heck, but I _loved_ it. I didn't love catching up on homework, but when I was too old to Avenge, I'd need a degree to get a job. I grabbed my stealth suit, combat boots, weapon belt, and elastic. I yanked my hair into a ponytail and rushed back out. "Get this off of me now. Please," I pleaded with the three superhumans, revealing the ankle tracker.

Pietro knelt. His hand started vibrating. He placed his fingertips on the seam of the tracker.

It shattered. I grinned and threw the pieces onto the sofa. "Let's go before Tony or Clint notices!" I hissed. Bucky took my hand and we ran out of my apartment with Pietro in front of us and Steve behind.

We got on the Quinjet and Bucky sat in the cockpit with me in the co-pilot's seat. The super soldier gave me a grin as the aircraft lifted from the ground.

"Ready to right our wrongs?" he asked.

"Of course," I answered, rolling my ankle in circles over and over, reveling in not wearing the tracker anymore. The flight would take a few hours, but it would definitely be worth it. Everything I messed up when we were in Bucharest would be fixed. I would sleep in peace knowing the crime ring was taken _out_ by _my own hand_.

Bucky kissed my temple as my phone started ringing. "That would be your uncle," he commented.

"No kidding," I muttered. _Uncle Clint_ said the contact name. "What if I just don't answer?"

"He'll kill you later."

"He'll kill me later anyway. We broke the tracker."

"Fair point."

I hit _Reject with SMS_ and picked a "Sorry I didn't pick up" template that read, "Sorry I missed your call. I was making out with my boyfriend. Call me back later if I don't get back to you."

"You did _not_ pick that one!" Bucky exclaimed. I laughed.

"Oh _I did_ ," I replied.

"Now he's gonna kill you, drag you back to life, and kill you again."

"I don't know why he disapproves of you so heavily. I mean, it's not like I'm dating Loki or Pietro."

"Hey!" Pietro protested.

"Sorry, bud, but you know you drive him crazy!"

"Fair point," he conceded.

"It's because I was the Winter Soldier for so long. He doesn't believe I can be saved. He thinks I'm going to hurt you. He thinks I'm going to kill you. He thinks we can absolutely not have a life together. There is no way in all Nine Realms that I'm good enough for you. I agree with him on that one. I will _never_ be good enough for you. But trying to be is what saved me," Bucky explained. I laid my head on his shoulder. "Now get some sleep. You'll need to keep you energy up for when we land in Romania."

"Wake me when it's my turn to fly."

"I will," Bucky promised, both of us knowing full well that he wouldn't. He never did. He'd just turn the jet on Auto if he got tired. Steve and Pietro settled down in the cargo hold to rest. Steve called a good night to us before he dropped off. His sleep mumblings started a few minutes later as I drifted off myself, Bucky gently stroking my hair and muttering sweet-nothings in seven different languages—but primarily Russian—in my ear. I smiled against the vibrations of his chest and the beating of his powerful heart and started to sleep.

I woke up to the Quinjet landing in the outskirts of Bucharest, Romania. "Right. Let's go," I remarked.

* * *

 **End Note: Hope you enjoyed! Apologies for taking so long!**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~Cass**


	89. Talk to Me (B)

**Author's Note: Haven't updated this in a while. But I LOVED writing this one-shot.**

 **89) Talk to Me**

* * *

Rough hands shoved me unceremoniously through the door. "Watch it!" I snapped as the metal door slammed shut.

"Sit down, agent," a calm voice commented. I whipped around to see an older man with light, graying hair and wrinkles sitting across a metal table from me. There was a metal chair on my side, but he was sitting in an armchair. He had blue eyes and was wearing a crisp suit. Knowing it would be better to comply simply for the sake of my life, I sat in the metal chair.

"Secretary Pierce," I greeted.

"Agent, have you any idea why you're here?" he asked.

I had my suspicions. Probably because I had been sneaking into that room with the shirtless guy with the tin foil arm for weeks and just talking to him. But I wasn't going to say anything.

"No," I sort-of lied.

Alexander Pierce sighed heavily and put the tips of his fingers together thoughtfully. "You're here because now you're the only one the Asset will talk to," he told me. I blinked in lieu of a response. I had no idea who "the Asset" was.

"Who?"

"The man you consistently go to talk to."

Ah. So this _was_ about that.

"Okay?" I edged.

"He won't talk to anyone else. So you're no longer an agent of SHIELD. From now on you're an agent of HYDRA. And you answer to me."

Several warning bells and red flags were wailing and flying in my head. _HYDRAHYDRAHYDRA_ , I thought, mind whirling around on itself too fast to make sense of anything. I cleared my throat. "And if I say no?" I asked carefully. Pierce shrugged, nonchalant and casual—impressive for how flippin' old he was.

"Then you'll be six feet under before you can say SHIELD."

"Hmm. Okay. When should I start?" Self-preservation wasn't one of my strong suits, but I would be more useful to SHIELD alive than dead. Hopefully.

Pierce stood up. "Now would be good." He went over to the wall and opened a door I hadn't noticed before—because it blended perfectly. He motioned for me to follow him. Standing from the uncomfortable chair, I moved so I was standing next to him. He pushed me through the door. I stumbled and landed on my knees, scraping my hands on the concrete. I winced as some blood beaded on my palms and looked up.

The man with the metal arm was staring at me, sitting in a chair with restraints on his arms. He wasn't wearing a shirt. In any other situation I'd be admiring his muscles and ogling. But as it was, he looked stripped. Half-naked. Injured. Agonized. Beaten up. Tragic. There was a blank stare in his eyes that killed me. No one should be treated the way he was.

I eased over to him, staying on my knees so he could see me and recognize that he was superior to me. Entreatingly I placed my hands on either side of his face. His empty blue eyes stared levelly at me.

" _Talk_ to me," I whispered, pleading with him.

His tongue peeked out from between his lips to wet their dryness. "There's nothing to talk about, înger," he murmured quietly. The men in SWAT gear all around us tensed. I could feel their eyes boring into the back of my skull. He'd just called me _angel_ in Romanian. Emotional bleed.

I turned pleadingly to Pierce. "He'll talk if we're alone," I said.

He nodded at the men. "Leave them."

The room emptied. Even Pierce retreated. I turned back to the man with the metal arm.

"What's going on?" I asked.

The man scrunched his eyes. "Wrong words," he mumbled.

"What?"

"Wrong words," he repeated, louder.

I wracked my brain. Pierce had given me no context on what I was supposed to talk to this poor tragedy about. But he'd never responded to my "What's going on?" like that before. So I sighed. "What should I say, then? What are the right words?"

He stared at my glabella for a while, like he was trying to think—or remember. "Mission… mission… mission… report."

I sighed again. "Mission report," I said.

"Failed. Target still alive," he replied robotically. "Third-party interference. Natalia Romanova." My eyes widened. Natasha. What was she meddling in? "Engaged and injured. Second attempt advised." It would have been foolish of me to assume that Pierce couldn't hear the conversation. I closed my eyes. There would be nothing I could do to protect Natasha now that the man with the metal arm—the _Asset_ —had said her name out loud. All I'd be able to do was warn her. "Mission report concluded."

I opened my eyes. The blank, empty look in his eyes was gone—and I saw more emotional bleed. Fear. Pain. Anger. Confusion. All of it passed over his face in a series of micro-expressions that a normal person would have missed. I wished I could lay my head on his chest and hold him comfortingly, offering words of reassurance.

Yeah. _That_ was a sure-fire way to end up dead on the floor.

"Thank you for the mission report," I said. He nodded—a single jerk of his head.

"What's going on?" I repeated.

"Pain. Hurt. My arm—" My gaze instinctively flicked to his metal prosthetic but he shook his head urgently. " _Other_ arm." Talking to him was always just a few words or broken sentences. I looked to his other arm. The shoulder looked wrong.

"Dislocated?" I asked. Something lit up in his eyes and he nodded. "Want me to fix it?" He nodded again. I put my hands in the right spot to relocate his shoulder. "On three. One—" And I popped it back into place. He seethed in pain for a moment before he let out a shaking, shuddery breath and relaxed. I leaned closer to him to whisper in his ear, "Why do you call me înger—angel?" He turned his head towards me, eyes emptying again.

"You save me. We talk. You're kind. No one else is like you," he answered. I blushed.

"Thank you," I mumbled.

Pierce threw the door open, strolling in. "Good work, agent. Expect us to contact you again in a few weeks."

I nodded. "Yes sir." Standing up, I patted Bucky's shoulder and moved to leave.

"Oh, and agent! Don't even think about warning Romanoff."

I shook my head. "Wouldn't have dreamed of it."

* * *

 **End Note: Thank you all for reading! Hope you're enjoying these! There are still plenty more to come!**

 **Shout out to PadawanLilia for reviewing a bunch of one-shots all at once! That made me smile! To "PocketRamblr": I wrote a whole lot for Bucky so I'm trying to get them all up on here (albeit slowly) but if you like the YouTubers Dan and Phil I have a Collection of One-shots for them as well if you want to break up the BuckyBuckyBuckyBuckyBucky. To "callieandjack": Yes, Clint will kill her, but it's TOTALLY worth it! To "RussianAssassin": SQUEEEE!**


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